The Fallen
by XWaltzforVenusX
Summary: AU s3. The death of Veronica Townsend prompts some major changes in Newport. RT eventually.
1. The Fallen

_Alright, so I've totally had this written for a long time, but I never got around to posting it. I'm really only doing so now because 1) ORy gave me the go-ahead and 2) I have a shitload of homework to do this weekend, so as usual, I'm doing my best to avoid thinking about it._

_Um, some background info: this takes place near the beginning of season 3. Everything up to it happened, then it takes a sharp left at AU. And it's rated for just really dark themes and depressingness._

_Enjoy! _

_Music: you've already been and we've already seen that the fallen are the virtuous among us_

* * *

"Did you hear?" Julie came into the kitchen – like she owned it – ignoring the glare from Sandy.

"Hear what?" Kirsten, too, ignored her husband's intense dislike for the redhead. Ryan saw it, though, and silently agreed with the man. She tried to fuck with Trey – tried to get _him_ put in jail on assault charges – just to protect her precious daughter, who wouldn't have gotten in any trouble anyway.

Oh well, that shit was over, thank God. Trey was gone, he and Marissa were… well, broken up, most likely. They just weren't working anymore. Her expulsion from Harbor had created a rift – he always felt like she secretly resented him for _not_ getting kicked out, too. He'd been just as surprised as her.

Even after they got her back in – Seth and Summer campaigned like hell and got people to sign the petition – nothing was the same. She'd met that Johnny kid and she just… slipped away. So now they were on a tentative break, to see if they _wanted _to break up for good. That was bullshit, he thought. If she didn't want to be with him, then she should just dump him and get it over with.

"Veronica died."

"What?" Kirsten put her knife down and Ryan saw Seth visibly relax. The boy still didn't trust his mom's kitchen skills, even though she'd been doing better since rehab.

"Veronica who?" Sandy asked, giving into his curiosity and talking to Julie.

"Townsend," it was Kirsten that answered. Apparently there was only one Veronica it could be.

"It seems that she'd had a little too much to drink and crashed into a tree," Julie shook her head, missing the uncontrolled fear that crossed over Kirsten's face.

Sandy saw it, though, and tensed up.

"I only heard about it," Julie continued, not noticing Sandy move over to place his hand on his wife's back, "because I was at the hospital, giving a donation."

"Wait," Seth cut in, "Townsend like Taylor Townsend?"

"Poor girl," Kirsten whispered, but her mind was clearly on other things. Sandy rubbed his hand over his wife's back. "We should send flowers or something."

"The funeral's going to be this Saturday," Julie told them, shrugging when Kirsten raised an eyebrow at her. "I may have… hung around and overheard some things." Sandy rolled his eyes but didn't say anything.

"Oh, shame," Seth put his plate in the sink. "We're going to the IMAX showing of that shark movie Saturday."

"No," Kirsten stopped her son – halfway to the door. "You're going to the funeral." Her tone left no room for argument.

* * *

Taylor stared at the man's mouth as it moved, but she couldn't make out what he was saying.

Her mom was dead.

Veronica Townsend.

Dead.

Was that even possible? Veronica Townsend was… invincible. There had to be some mistake. But no… there was no mistaking her mother's face, even if it was white, even if it had no make-up on, even if the rest of her was covered by a sheet as she lay on the cold steel table. She'd only nodded – it was her mother – before the man pushed her back in and closed the door to that little metal vault.

He took her out of the morgue, talking, but she didn't listen.

She excused herself when she saw the ladies room and went in. No one else was around, so she made no effort to mask the sounds as she threw up her lunch into the cold, dirty porcelain. Then she went to the sink, rinsed her mouth out, smoothed her hair down, and went back out to talk to the mortician.

Not that she heard anything he said.

His mouth was moving, but her ears had stopped working.

Veronica Townsend was dead.

* * *

"I hate ties," Seth complained, pulling at his as they stood under the sun.

"Cohen, stop complaining," Summer whispered, keeping her voice low and not taking her eyes off where they were lowering the casket into the ground. "Be respectful."

Ryan didn't watch the casket – he didn't even _know_ the woman. His eyes went to Marissa, standing off a little ways with her mother. She'd said hello to him and that was about it. Oh, and she'd smiled, but he really wasn't sure what the hell he was supposed to make of that.

What the _fuck_ was a 'break'?

* * *

The more people fear you, the more that show up at your funeral.

It was almost sick, in a way.

None of them _liked_ her mother.

Hell, s_he_ didn't even like her mother.

"How are you, dear?" a voice asked and she turned toward the sound with a smile plastered on. Who the hell was talking to her now? She didn't know the woman, but she said a polite hello back and pretended she did. The woman took no notice and told her how nice everything here looked.

She almost laughed.

She had no doubt that her mother was looking down at her and telling all the other ghosts how _awful_ those flowers were, how _cheap_ the food was, how _fat_ her daughter looked.

Maybe 'looking up' was a more appropriate idea for her mother? Not that she believed in hell, per se. Not that she believed in heaven, either.

She didn't believe in much of anything.

But she had no doubt that if her mother had the chance, she'd watch over the funeral, just to see how many people came.

Compulsively, she smoothed down her dress, then patted at her hair to make sure nothing had fallen loose from the twisted knot. She still looked perfect.

She always did.

* * *

"This is some house," Sandy whistled, looking around.

"She was successful, you've gotta give her that," Kirsten commented quietly, hand tight around her glass of water.

"It looks like all of Newport showed up," Julie commented drily, rolling her eyes.

"Well," Sandy shrugged. "There's free food and booze. You know people here can't turn down free booze."

"We should pay our respects," Kirsten sighed, nodding toward the kitchen. Everyone turned to watch the girl dressed in black as she talked to some man. Ryan seriously had no idea who half these people were. Even after three years he couldn't keep them straight.

The look on Kirsten's face told them all to follow as she made her way over. Julie and Marissa hung back – probably because their sympathies wouldn't be too convincing. Julie's because she… well, she was Julie Cooper-Nichol and Marissa because she hated Taylor.

"Taylor," Kirsten interrupted the man and none of them missed the almost-relief on the girl's face when he left. "I'm so sorry…"

"Thank you," she accepted politely, nodding her head. "Is everything alright? Can I get you anything else?" Kirsten seemed startled by the question and Taylor gestured at her drink. "Did you need something else to drink? Eat?"

"Don't you have caterers?" Seth asked, turning his head to look around.

"Yes… well…" Taylor tried to brush it off, running her hand over her dress, like she was trying to rid it of some imaginary dirt.

"How are you?" Kirsten pressed on, giving her son a brief – icy – look. Taylor looked up from her dress, confused. Then her face settled back into a polite smile.

"The grieving process is hard, but I believe I'll make it through."

Ryan raised his eyebrow. Well, if that wasn't the biggest bullshit answer he'd ever heard. It was such a Newpsie thing to say. He doubted any of them had any real emotions.

Maybe that Stepford Wives movie had some truth to it…

* * *

Finally, people were starting to leave.

She should've ordered less food, because they only started leaving once the food was gone.

One by one they trickled out without saying goodbye, which was fine with her. She didn't need to talk to any of them. When the last of them were gone – the Cohens, of course, making sure she was _ok_ before they left – she dismissed the caterers.

She wanted to be alone.

Alone was better.

The house was a wreck, though, and she sighed as she grabbed a trash bag and started picking up napkins and dumping the excess food off of plates.

"Taylor," a voice sounded from behind her and she felt her muscles tighten up.

Stupid Cohens, couldn't they just leave her alone?

"Mrs. Cohen," she turned with a smile, trying to hide the trash bag behind her back. The last thing she needed was these people seeing her _cleaning_. Kirsten Cohen was friends with all those women – it would be the latest gossip by tomorrow.

Poor little Taylor Townsend, having to clean up her own house.

"I think I left my purse," the woman explained with a smile – like she actually _cared_.

"I'll help you look," she answered politely, trying to discretely get rid of the bag. The rustling was loud, though, and she saw Kirsten's eyes go to it. Great.

The worst part was, the whole stupid family was there.

It would've been bad enough had it just been her, but no. Her husband and her children were behind her, along with Summer Roberts.

No, this was just fantastic.

Not only would the gossip be going around the older Newport crowd, but now the entire school would know.

"Why don't we help you clean up," Mr. Cohen offered kindly. He was the only one of the group she vaguely trusted not to be a lying manipulator. There was just something about him…

"That's quite alright," she waved them off, still smiling politely. Off to the side, Summer Roberts frowned.

"We have nothing better to do," the girl offered, stepping forward. "We'll help."

Annoyance ran through her body. "I said that's alright," she responded, voice going tight.

Summer sighed, stepping further into the kitchen. "Look, Taylor, I know we've never gotten along…"

She barely resisted the urge to laugh. "…but you've been through a lot. We're here for you."

"Oh?" she felt her body go rigid, but her hands started shaking. "How very nice of you all. I'm so happy you can take time out of your busy schedules to feel bad for the poor orphan girl."

"Taylor," Mrs. Cohen stepped forward, looking upset.

"I'm just trying to be nice," Summer continued on, recoiling a little. Like _she_ was the victim here.

"That's great, Summer, but I don't buy it." She shouldn't be this rude, she knew, but the day was catching up to her. She just wanted to be alone.

"You don't _buy_ it?" She heard the rage in the other girl's voice as Seth stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Ryan and Sandy stayed back, watching the display with mild interest.

"You're right," she smiled tightly, feeling her stomach rebel against her again. Luckily, she hadn't eaten anything in the past three days, so there was nothing left to throw up. "You're just being nice. Like that time you copied off my algebra test and then told Mrs. Calhoun I was the one who cheated off you? Or that time you invited me to your birthday and told me it was a costume party, but it turned out you forgot to mention that little detail to all the other guests?"

Summer stayed silent and she felt her stomach heave again. Her hands were shaking. She just wanted to be alone. A movement –Seth – caught her eye, but she held up a hand as he opened his mouth. She knew he was going to defend his girlfriend.

She didn't need to hear it.

"I don't need your help," she explained, trying to keep her voice from being rude. Especially to Mr. and Mrs. Cohen. They were adults. She could be rude to Seth and Summer and Ryan – although he'd stayed quiet this whole time – but she couldn't be rude to adults. "I've never needed anyone's help before and I don't need it now."

Interesting. That got a reaction out of Ryan. The boy twitched and finally looked at her, but she ignored that.

Summer, on the other hand, looked like she couldn't decide whether she wanted to scream or cry. Instead she chose to storm out, Seth on her heels, calling for her. Mrs. Cohen ducked her head and went in search for her purse. Ryan followed her out.

Mr. Cohen paused in the entrance to the kitchen. "Look, Miss Townsend," he started and she waited for him to speak. Something about addressing her as Miss Townsend made her relax – at least now he wasn't trying to be all _personal_, like he actually knew anything about her. "If you ever need any help, please, call. We won't turn you away."

She plastered a smile on her face and gave her best impression of someone being grateful. "Thank you, Mr. Cohen."

He didn't buy it but she was too tired to care. He just nodded and left the room.

Eventually she heard them leave the house and outside, two cars started up.

She was alone, just like she wanted to be.

The silence was deafening.

She ignored that and started to clean.

_

* * *

_

review


	2. Like Drinking Poison

_Um, a couple more notes that I forgot to put in chapter one: There is no Hess in this story. It's too complicated and I'm too lazy to try and fix the story around him. So everything happened with Trey, but no Hess. Marissa got back into Harbor because of Seth and Summer's campaign, no help from Taylor._

_Btw, I've had this story as a side project for a while now, so I've really grown attached to it. On that note, thanks so much to everyone who reviewed! I love you all._

_Enjoy!_

_Music: like drinking poison, like eating glass_

* * *

"Summer, let it go."

"I can't, Coop," she whined as they sat on the couches. "You weren't there, you should've seen her!"

"So she was pissed off, she'll get over it," Marissa rolled her eyes and took a sip of her coffee.

"That's the thing, though," Summer sighed back, leaning back against the sofa. "She _wasn't_ pissed off. I was a horrible person to her, and she acted like she didn't care."

"Maybe she doesn't," Seth offered. Ryan could tell he just wanted Summer to feel better; he didn't actually believe the words.

He still remembered what it was like to get picked on.

Ryan noticed, then, that Summer was watching him, so he shrugged. He didn't know the girl. He'd never talked to her.

* * *

School officially sucked.

She thought it was bad before, when everyone either ignored her or made fun of her. But now… everyone was paying attention.

They were whispering about her, she could tell.

She wondered if it was _'poor Taylor Townsend, she lost her mother. How sad,' _or '_Taylor Townsend's such a bitch. She deserves this_.'

She couldn't decide which would be worse.

"Taylor." Summer Roberts stepped in front of her, blocking her path. "Hey."

"Hello, Summer," she greeted like she always did whenever someone decided to talk to her. Then she stepped to the side and continued walking.

"Hey," Summer followed her, much to her annoyance. "I wanted to say I was sorry."

"For what?"

"For being mean to you for… like, ever."

"It's nothing," she waved her hand at the other girl. She didn't need pity.

* * *

"You tried," Ryan offered, pointing his fork at his friend.

"But she just… brushed me off!" Summer protested, frowning down at her lunch.

"Can you blame her?" Seth asked quietly, not looking up from his sandwich. Summer looked – if it were possible – even more depressed than before.

* * *

She hated this place.

The lobby was cold and she was annoyed at having to wait. She was paying _him_, shouldn't he at least have the decency to see her on time?

She hadn't even gone home after school, she'd just come straight to her lawyer's office.

"Miss Townsend?" The squirrely receptionist called her name and she stood up and marched into his office.

"Miss Townsend," his slick voice greeted. She hated Phil McMahon; he was just the kind of sneaky, underhanded bastard her mother loved. Her mother always praised his ability to get her out of whatever trouble spot she happened to be in. She _adored_ the man.

Taylor hated him.

She especially hated the way his eyes fixed on her chest and stayed there as he talked to her.

"It's about time," she told him, sitting in the chair he offered and folding her arms over her chest.

"What can I say?" he smiled, spreading his hands wide in innocence – like she bought that. "I'm a very busy man, Miss Townsend." She hated his smile – it was faker than hers. "My time is worth a lot, so I won't always have time to focus on your case," he explained, like she was a child. She wasn't. She was eighteen, which was why she had to go through all this shit. "Unless – of course," he continued smoothly, "you make it worth my while."

* * *

"I'll get it," Kirsten sighed, getting up from the table.

Ryan watched her leave, then returned his attention to his brother. Seth was talking about… something, he wasn't sure what, but he _was_ sure it wasn't important. If it _was_ important, Sandy would be paying attention, but the man's eyes were glazed over, so he figured he was safe.

"Sandy?" Kirsten reentered the kitchen, looking confused. Sandy turned to face his wife – and the girl that entered after.

What the hell was Taylor Townsend doing in the Cohens house?

"Miss Townsend," Sandy rose, holding out his hand for her to shake. The girl seemed taken aback by the gesture, but pulled herself together and shook his hand. "What can I do for you?"

"Well," she began, and it was then that Ryan noticed the very large – very heavy looking – file folder that she hugged tightly to her chest. "You said if I ever needed anything…"

"Of course, of course," Sandy stood aside and gestured at the table – for her to sit down. Taylor looked confused – it was probably obvious she interrupted dinner – but Sandy always got his way. She sat, placing the file on the table in front of her. "Now, how can I help?"

"You're a lawyer," she explained, shrugging. "I just wanted to know if you had any insight into which ones were good."

"I thought you had a lawyer," Sandy sat down as well, followed by Kirsten.

"I don't anymore."

Ryan thought it was strange when she didn't elaborate – Sandy looked confused as well, but he didn't say anything about it.

"Alright," he spoke up finally. "I'll look into it on Monday. Now, would you like some Thai?"

* * *

Her life was officially screwed up.

Her mother was dead and she'd just finished having dinner with the Cohen family.

She parked her car and went inside, ignoring the dull ache in her chest. The whole _family dinner_ experience left a bitter taste in her mouth. Now she remembered why she didn't want the Cohens meddling in her affairs.

They were just so _perfect_.

Oh, she knew about Kirsten's little drinking problem – her mother had been _all over_ that – and she knew they weren't the _definition_ of perfect, but they were pretty damn close.

It made her chest ache – the way Kirsten looked at her family. Not because she missed her mom or anything. To be honest, it felt unreal; knowing she'd never have to listen to her mother again. She was free from that bitch. But dinner with the Cohens made her realize that she'd never had anything even _close_ to a real family.

Every second she spent with them was like eating glass – tearing up her insides, making her bleed, but leaving no mark on the outside.

* * *

"Are you sure about this, Sandy?" Kirsten whispered, leaning against the kitchen counter.

"No," he shrugged, pulling his tie off. "But I talked to every family law lawyer and honey, they all have too many cases and I have a feeling Miss Townsend won't settle for being put last on the list."

"Sandy…"

"Fine," he relented with a slight smile. "I can't help it, I feel bad for the girl."

"But offering to be her lawyer?" Kirsten moved forward to rest her head against her husband's chest as he looped his arms around her. "You don't even _do_ that sort of thing."

"Doesn't mean I'm not qualified," he defended. "I just… I can't throw the girl to the wolves." His wife didn't answer because she knew there was more. She always knew. "She reminds me of you, a little," he admitted, voice low. "When I first met you. Alone, scared, proud."

"My hero," Kirsten grinned into his shoulder, earning a chuckle from him.

* * *

She stared down at the phone.

Great.

No, this was just perfect.

Mr. Cohen had found her a great lawyer. The only problem? It was him.

Actually, she would have no problem with Sandy Cohen as her lawyer, because there was something about him that made her… relax. The problem was that he came with that pesky family attached to him. If he was her lawyer, she foresaw many _family dinners_ with the Cohens in the future.

She didn't want family dinners.

She didn't want to sit there and watch them talk and laugh.

She just wanted to be alone.

So why had she said yes?

* * *

"It's kinda like being celebrities," Seth muttered. "Just in the worst possible way."

Ryan had to agree. Every single person in the school was staring at them. It was like they were back in sophomore year, when everyone had been shocked that the new boy and Seth Cohen were hanging out together.

He kind of wondered how Taylor was handling this.

She must be getting the same attention, right? After all, this was about Sandy being her lawyer and all. Apparently the Newpsies had been all over that bit of news. Those women really liked to feed on the bloody remains of tragedy.

He had a feeling Julie Cooper was behind this. She was the only person – outside their family and Taylor – that knew. Hell, Sandy had only offered yesterday, for fuck's sake.

"Hey."

Thank God.

"Hey Summer," he greeted back as Seth looped his arm around the girl. Summer could handle the gossip. She could make the wolves back off.

"Hey."

Except that one.

"Hey, Coop," Summer said quietly, shooting him a look.

"So what's with Sandy being Taylor Townsend's lawyer?"

Wow. She definitely wasn't a full blown Newpsie yet. They were usually better at being subtle.

"She needed one, dad offered."

"Yeah, but Taylor Townsend?" She snorted, shaking her head. "Good luck with that."

"Thanks?" Seth was, obviously, on his side.

He knew he liked the guy for a reason.

* * *

Fuckers.

If this was anywhere else – if _she_ were anyone else – she'd have flipped them off by now.

But this was Newport and she was Taylor Townsend, so she just ignored the stares and whispers. Her favorite one – by far – was the rumor that she was trying to get in good with the Cohens so she could steal Seth away from Summer.

Thank God it was the end of the day.

She opened her locker and shoved her books inside, not even bothering to put them in class order like she always did. Fifth period's book went on top of eighth's; six's went under third's. Not in the proper order at all.

"Hey Taylor," a hopeful voice sounded from the other side of her open locker door. She didn't have to look to know who it was.

"Summer."

"Hey, the Cohens were gonna have a big dinner for everyone tonight. You wanna come?"

She turned and looked at the girl's face. Summer was obviously trying to sound nonchalant, but Taylor could see the buried hope that it wasn't too late to make up for her past.

But it was too late.

"Sure, I'd love to."

What the hell?

"Great! We'll see you at six!"

She watched Summer run back to her friends, and the two boys shot her a look before they walked away.

She shouldn't go. She should tell Summer it was too late – being nice wouldn't make a difference now. Because it was too late.

She was her mother.

She closed her locker and wondered if her mother had gone through life with this hollow ache in her chest.

* * *

"Marissa's coming?"

Kirsten turned to him with a frown. "She's your girlfriend, why wouldn't she be coming?"

"Oh mother," Seth grinned and shook his head as Ryan glared.

"We're 'on a break' right now," he grumbled. He didn't feel like explaining this.

"What's 'a break'?" Kirsten questioned, flipping through the menu.

"Exactly."

"Well, she and Julie are already invited, so we'll just make the best of it." She picked up the phone to call in their order.

"You do know Marissa hates Taylor, right?" Seth continued. Kirsten frowned further, but didn't answer. Instead, she walked out of the room to talk. "This should be fun."

"Extended dinners always are," Ryan replied in monotone.

Oh yeah. This should be fun.

* * *

She pulled her car up to the Cohen house, but didn't shut off the engine.

She recognized Julie Cooper's car.

Which meant Marissa was probably here, too.

Great.

* * *

They all sat around the table in silence.

"Where's Taylor?" Summer finally spoke, voicing the question they all had. They were waiting for her to start eating and she was twenty minutes late.

"Does anyone have her phone number?" Kirsten asked, still frowning. No one spoke.

"It should be in her file," Sandy broke the silence, getting up. "I'll give her a call."

* * *

The phone rang, but she ignored it.

She knew it was the Cohens, playing the role of concerned adults, but she didn't feel like dealing with it. And she knew it was rude to flake on people – to not show up and not call, but she didn't care.

She didn't need them.

Sandy was just her lawyer – it's not like they had any obligation to actually be nice to her and she had none to them. Sandy would figure out her mother's will and then he'd go away.

The Cohens would go away.

That's all she wanted.

_

* * *

_

review


	3. The View

_Um, so I totally adore this fic and I hope you all do too, cause I've worked really hard on it... Apparently I like being depressing._

_Also note, the chapter titles are song names. Chapter one was 'The Fallen' by Franz Ferdinand, two was 'Like Eating Glass' by Bloc Party. This chapter is 'The View' by Modest Mouse. All lyrics are taken from the respective chapter song._

_Music: if life's not beautiful without the pain, well I'd just rather never ever even see beauty again_

* * *

He wasn't _quite_ sure why he was here.

Kirsten had been freaking out; Sandy a little better at hiding his concern over the fact that Taylor never showed up and never answered her phone. Kirsten was worried she was dead on the side of the road.

Ryan just assumed she was being a bitch.

But Seth and Summer had mysteriously _remembered_ they had plans and he was desperate to get away from Marissa and Julie, so now he was here. He sighed and knocked on the door again.

_Finally_ he heard movement on the other side and the door opened. Taylor frowned at him.

"You guys don't take a hint, do you?"

He couldn't help it – he laughed.

"Sandy and Kirsten are persistent." Yeah, he had definite first-hand experience with that. She studied him for a while, then sighed.

"I guess I should invite you in."

She stood aside and he passed by her, into the house. It was just as big as he remembered from the funeral.

"So why didn't you come to dinner?"

"Why do you care?" she shot back, obviously not seeing any point in being nice to _him_.

"I don't," he shrugged. Hell, if she was going to be rude, he would too. "But the Cohens do, so now I'm here."

He waited for her to answer, watched her struggle with herself. She seemed like she was debating what answer to give him – the truth or something to make the Cohens feel better.

"I didn't feel like dealing with Marissa."

Well… that he could understand. Marissa had spent all dinner smiling at him, flirting with him.

Fucking with him.

He still wasn't sure what she wanted from this 'break'.

"Did you need something else?"

Her voice pulled him back from his thoughts. She was staring at him with a strange expression, eyes flicking from him to the door. She wanted him to leave.

"No, we just wanted to make sure you weren't dead." It was only after he said it that he remembered her mom just died. And he was about to apologize when he realized she didn't look upset over his choice of words. Good. "I'll see you in school."

* * *

She took a deep breath and stood up slowly, just in case.

Sure that her stomach was done heaving, she flushed the toilet then made her way to the sink and rinsed her mouth out.

The Cohens made her sick.

And not in some metaphoric way, like _ew, they make me sick_.

No, the Cohens made her physically sick.

They just couldn't leave her alone, could they? They just _had_ to keep bothering her and being… _nice_.

She didn't want it. She didn't need it.

She didn't deserve it.

If they wanted to play savior, they should try it with someone whose soul was actually salvageable.

* * *

"Taylor," Sandy greeted when the girl walked into his office. She gave him a tight smile and sat in the chair he motioned to, placing her bag on the floor.

Her schoolbag.

The girl was only eighteen. She was still in high school. The law be damned, she wasn't old enough to take on all this. Eighteen was still too young for… everything.

"So what did dear mother leave me?" Her voice was dead, face blank. Like she half expected her mom to leave her nothing at all.

"Well, the good news is she passed everything onto you," he started off. Better to start off on a positive note.

"But…" the girl prompted, seemingly unfazed by the prospect of a _but_.

He sighed. "But unfortunately, your old lawyer is making it… difficult for me to obtain all the paperwork." He watched her frown and wondered for the millionth time why she'd fired him. He knew Phil McMahon – it wasn't like the guy was a saint. But what had he done to be fired? Switching lawyers in the middle of something never helped the situation and Taylor had to know that.

"And what does that mean, Mr. Cohen?"

"It means," he leaned forward on his desk, folding his hands, "that it may take a while to free up some of your mother's accounts."

"So… I have no money?"

"Of course not," he cut in quickly. "You have your trust fund."

"Right."

* * *

She was broke.

Her hands were actually shaking as she stood in the kitchen.

She was broke.

Sandy had no idea she spent her trust fund this summer, when she went to France. She'd told her mom it was to check out the Sorbonne, but it was really to get away. She couldn't handle another summer spent with her mother telling her how fat she looked in a bathing suit.

Now she was broke because that stupid bastard was keeping the paperwork from Sandy. Probably to spite her for firing him.

And not sleeping with him.

Ew.

She just wasn't sure what she was supposed to do now. She had no money and she couldn't tell Sandy. He'd just pity her and try to _help_.

But she'd gotten this month's bills and she had no money and if Phil McMahon had his way, she wouldn't for a very long time.

She'd have to get a job or... something.

* * *

He hated Newport parties. They were the bane of his existence.

Marissa was here with her mother, looking amazing as always. And she was still smiling at him, always from afar. But whenever their eyes met, she smiled and he got more confused.

He felt like his tie was choking him.

Noise to his left caught his attention and he turned to watch a gaggle of Newpsies flock to Taylor Townsend. They all started talking to her at once, asking her how she was and if there was anything they could do.

Taylor, for her part, smiled and told them she was handling it all. It was a bullshit answer for bullshit questions. He had to hand it to the girl, though; she handled them better than a lot of people could.

Eventually they got bored with her – when she didn't break down or say anything wrong – and went to find something else to amuse their alcohol flooded brains.

Then he watched her move off to the side of the house.

He followed.

What the hell, it's not like he wanted to stay at the party and he was sure the Cohens would be happy he was checking up on her.

He found her around the corner of the house, pulling a cigarette out of the pack. Her hands shook as she put it to her lips and he watched her root around in her purse – probably for a lighter. He got his own out – the Cohens never had to know about _that_ – and held it up for her.

She seemed startled that he'd found her, but lit her cigarette anyway.

"Thanks."

"Didn't know you smoked," he said back, leaning up against the wall. She sighed and stared down at the burning cigarette.

"I don't. I found them in my mom's purse and I figured why not? Smoking's supposed to make you relax, right?" He didn't say anything as she put the thing to her lips and inhaled.

And then broke into a fit of coughs.

He grinned. "It's only relaxing if you're addicted," he told her, still smiling. Then he reached out and took the cigarette from her and took a drag.

_Ah_... nicotine.

"God, that's awful," she breathed, holding a hand to her chest. He nodded in agreement, but took another lungful in. It was awful and _fantastic_ at the same time. She held out her hand and he quirked an eyebrow before handing it back.

She was more careful, this time, taking a smaller puff of it. She still coughed, but it wasn't as bad.

He took it back.

"So why do you need to relax?" he asked, blowing the smoke out into the night sky.

"Because my mother just died and apparently _everyone_ wants to see me break down into hysterics so they can watch." It was oddly blunt and he handed her the cigarette back. She winced as she inhaled. "I just wanted to… I don't know, get away? No one ever paid attention to me at these things before. I always just stood in the corner and waited for my mom to decide it was time to go home."

"I usually stand in the corner, too," he told her. She handed the cigarette back.

"We must stand in different corners, then."

He smiled and tried to blow rings into the air.

He used to be better at it.

They continued to smoke in silence, passing it back and forth until he eventually snuffed it out on the cold ground below.

"Time to face the wolves," she muttered, smoothing out her dress. He noticed she did that a lot.

"Shit. Wait, do you have any mints or anything? I don't want the Cohens…"

"Right," she nodded, opening her purse and rooting through.

He took the mints gratefully and popped a few in his mouth, hoping that they wouldn't be able to smell it on his clothes in the crowd. She followed his lead and did the same, then pulled out a small bottle of perfume.

"I'd offer you some," she said, holding up the bottle, "but I doubt smelling like a girl will be any better than smelling like smoke." He laughed again and for the first time that night, she smiled back.

"Thanks anyway, and thanks for the smoke."

She nodded and headed back out to the party.

* * *

"…is so lovely," the woman in front of her was saying when she came back to reality. What was lovely? "Who is it? Marc Jacobs?"

Oh, her dress.

"Monique Lhuillier," she corrected, smoothing down her skirt. The woman nodded and started to ramble about how her niece knew someone, who knew someone, who knew Marc Jacobs.

Like she cared.

Her tongue felt fuzzy; she was dying to go home and brush her teeth.

Smoking was _gross_.

When she was little, she remembered thinking her mother looked so glamorous when she smoked, like one of those old-time movie stars with the long cigarettes. As she got older, her mom looked less and less like a movie star and more like a bitch, but still.

Ryan definitely had a James Dean vibe when he smoked.

She hoped he didn't say anything to Sandy about her smoking. She didn't need a lecture.

* * *

"Hey."

He remembered when that voice used to make his heart jump wildly, when it used to bring a smile to his face. Now it just brought annoyance and a headache.

"Marissa." He tried to make his voice neutral and took a sip of his water to hide his discomfort.

"So this party's really lame," she laughed, coming to stand next to him.

"Yeah."

He didn't say anything else, even though he knew she was waiting for it. What else was he supposed to say? This whole 'break' thing was her idea, he wasn't sure what the rules were.

"So how are you?" She sounded like she actually cared, and he felt his head start to pound.

"Confused." Well, that was the wrong thing to say. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her open her mouth and he braced himself for the inevitable conversation.

* * *

She left at a respectable time, hoping no one would notice. Why would they? They'd gotten all the gossip they could from her tonight, so they didn't have any other use for her. Before she really left, though, she looked around the party for Ryan. She had no use for a pack of cigarettes, and he seemed to enjoy them, so she figured she'd give them to him.

She spotted him at the edge of the crowd, having what looked like an intense conversation with Marissa Cooper. When wasn't everything intense with that girl? Marissa was the one reason she hated social committee. She loved planning, she loved organizing, she loved bossing people around. And that was all ruined because Marissa was social chair.

For a second she debated going over there and interrupting them – to thank Ryan for the 'nice time' just to see the look on Marissa's face – but she didn't feel like dealing with drama tonight.

No, tonight she had to go home and think of her future.

She needed a job.

Or something.

_

* * *

_

review


	4. Milk It

_You know, I scedule myself all this time to study and do homework, and instead, I end up doing this. I think my plans to drop out and join the circus may become a necessity rather than just a plan..._

_Oh well, enjoy!_

_Music: look on the bright side is suicide, lost eyesight I'm on your side_

* * *

Ryan dropped onto the bed with a groan, staring up at the blank ceiling.

His conversation with Marissa – about the status of their relationship – had lasted a _long_ time and he was no clearer on where they stood. No clearer on where they stood and definitely angrier and more frustrated. She kept giving him annoying non-answers like _I think time apart will do us good_ and _I need to think_ and _there's so much going on right now, we should focus on ourselves_.

What the fuck did that mean?

He needed a smoke.

After his 'conversation', he'd searched the party for Taylor to see if he could bum another cigarette off her, but she was nowhere to be found. Go figure – the one time the girl was actually useful, and she's not around.

He didn't bother undressing, he just closed his eyes and fell asleep.

* * *

"So they think my mother killed herself?"

Sandy's office was dirty.

Well, not _dirty_ dirty, but messy dirty – papers piled everywhere, empty Styrofoam coffee cups. Plus, the old, tacky, obviously 70's furniture didn't help. Bright sunlight filtered through faux-wood blinds, illuminating his desk in horizontal strips of light.

The man sighed, looking hassled. "They didn't think that, until McMahon _suggested_ it."

"Why would she kill herself? She loved herself too much."

She couldn't believe it, but she had no choice – she was staring at the damn paperwork. They thought her mother committed suicide.

"McMahon doesn't believe it," Sandy ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "But he's saying it, and the insurance company isn't arguing."

"So they don't have to pay her life insurance," she finished, feeling the hollow in her chest get bigger. Sandy didn't say anything. "Will you excuse me? I have homework."

She picked up her bag and left his office – stopping by the bathroom to throw up her lunch on her way out.

* * *

"Don't take this the wrong way," he sat down next to her, trying to act casual. She looked over at him with blank eyes and waited for him to continue. "But you look kind of thin."

She didn't say anything for a while, and he resisted the urge to run. Girls normally didn't... _appreciate_ having their weight commented on, but Sandy had mentioned last night that his client was looking rather gaunt. Of course, Seth had ducked out of the room, muttering something about homework, so it fell – once again – to him to investigate.

"I think that's the first time anyone's said that to me." She actually sounded amused and her lips curled up in a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. Her gaze fixed on something across the room.

"Yeah, well… I just wanted to make sure you were… you know, eating enough."

He watched her eyes come back into focus and she finally looked at him. Then she gave an abrupt, startled laugh before answering. "I'm eating fine. It's the _keeping it down_ part that's eluding me."

He sighed, feeling the annoyance – he didn't feel like dealing with some poor rich girl's bulimia. "Look, I know with your mom dying, you probably feel like that's the only thing you can control…" Another sharp laugh cut off his PSA speech, and he stopped mid-sentence.

"You think I'm doing it on purpose? Throwing up sucks. It hurts, it makes your breath smell, and it ruins your teeth." He didn't know what to say to that, besides suggest she may be pregnant, but he had the feeling that wouldn't go over well. "Thank you for your concern, but I'm fine." She smiled at him, plastic again, and stood up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Before she walked away, she turned to face him. "Please don't tell Sandy any of that. I didn't even mean to tell you."

He could only nod as she walked away.

* * *

"You take the dirty dishes, you put 'em in this pan, and viola."

She cringed inwardly as the man _butchered_ the French word, but nodded like she was paying rapt attention. Like all of this wasn't incredibly stupid and obvious. She was dying to make some bitchy comment.

But she'd rather not get fired on her first day.

"Alright, you have any questions, ask Sheila." Her new boss jerked his head toward the grey-haired woman behind the register.

"Thank you." The man grunted a response and headed into the back again.

She sighed and looked at the pan, the messy table in front of her, then down at herself.

She was wearing a fucking _apron_.

But she needed the money, so she started to pile the dirty dishes into the pan and ignored the fact that she was working in a restaurant. And not even as a waitress. She was a fucking busboy. Or busgirl. Was that the term? She didn't know – or care. All she knew was she had to clean up after people.

At least she wasn't in Newport.

That would take humiliation to a whole new level.

No, she'd gone far out of her way to find this place – on the outskirts of town, down past the numbered streets. No self-respecting social elite would come to this place, or anywhere near it.

With her first load of dishes, she headed back to the kitchens to dump them, getting a leer from the dishwasher for her troubles. Ew. She had no interest in some lowlife who used _way_ too much gel in his hair and wore multiple chains around his neck. Plus, he needed to be told that he couldn't pull off a wife beater.

She wasn't actually sure _anyone _could pull off a wife beater.

* * *

He debated all through the rest of the day whether to tell Sandy or not.

On one hand, the girl had some sort of problem. Whether it was bulimia and she was just lying – or in denial – or she was sick – or pregnant – the girl needed help.

On the other hand, he'd promised not to tell. He knew that was stupid – to ignore someone in trouble for a promise – but he'd been lied to so many times… Promises meant something. Or they did to him.

He'd give it a week.

If she didn't look better – if the dullness in her eyes didn't go away – after a week, he'd tell Sandy. He'd keep his word for a week.

And when dinner came, he was infinitely grateful for his decision, because Kirsten suggested inviting Taylor over. The last thing he needed was Sandy – or Kirsten, for that matter – saying something.

Sandy came back into the kitchen after calling her with a worried look on his face.

"She's not coming?" Kirsten questioned as she sifted through menus.

"She didn't answer."

Ryan sighed – he knew what he'd be doing after dinner. Especially because Sandy was giving him a look and Seth was staring intently at the kitchen floor, like it was suddenly very interesting.

* * *

Ok, if she hated people _before_, she despised them now.

Human kind could all go to hell and burn, for all she cared.

Seven hours of cleaning up dirty dishes and half-eaten food, with that stupid dishwasher making inappropriate comments every time she went into the back room and customers having endless complaints.

One woman asked her why her burger was raw – like she was the stupid chef or something.

Two teenagers sent back their meals four times – she wasn't even their waitress.

A baby fucking threw up on her.

But she was home now, and she was really looking forward to a hot shower. And maybe she'd help herself to one of her mother's bottles of wine. Screw school tomorrow.

She got out of her car, and look who was on her front porch.

Fucking _Atwood_.

He was sitting there, waiting for her.

She was thankful she'd taken her apron and nametag off already.

"What are you doing here?" She sighed, in no mood to be polite.

He stood as she walked past him, digging through her purse to get her house keys out. "Checking up on you." He wasn't even _pretending_ to have a real reason.

"I don't need a fucking babysitter," she grumbled, finally getting the door open and heading inside.

He followed.

"You smell like vomit."

If she weren't so tired and pissed off, she would've laughed at the bored observation. He pushed his hands into his pockets and stood in her kitchen as she dropped her bag on the counter.

"That's great. Did you come here just to tell me that?"

"Look, if you have a problem, we can help-"

"What is it with you people?" she interrupted, putting her fingertips to her forehead. "I don't _need_ your help. I don't need to be saved. I just need a shower and possibly a large amount of alcohol."

She grabbed her purse off the counter and left the kitchen.

She needed a shower.

* * *

He would've left, if it hadn't been for her last comment.

His mother, Marissa, Kirsten, hell even Taylor's mother – the last thing this girl needed was a large amount of alcohol.

"Stop following me," she hissed as he leaned against the doorframe of what was obviously her room. It was so… library-like. He was used to Marissa and Summer's rooms – with bright pink and stuffed toys everywhere.

"Look, I didn't tell Sandy, but I kind of have this thing called a conscience, so I can't just leave."

She ignored him and moved about her room – pulling clothes out of her dresser and obviously getting ready for a shower. It was only then that he realized she had her hair up in a ponytail, which he'd never seen before. And he would've written it off as nothing – girls were confusing like that – if it hadn't been for the glint that caught his eye.

It came from her purse; a nametag.

She noticed too late when he moved into her room and picked it up – along with the apron also spilling out of her purse.

"Hey!"

"What the hell?"

"God, invasion of privacy much?" She snatched the apron and nametag back from him, not meeting his eyes.

"You're a waitress?" He wasn't sure if he was supposed to laugh or not. Taylor Townsend was a waitress?

"Just leave me alone."

And there was the guilt. She'd whispered it – she wasn't angry anymore.

"Just… why?"

It made no sense. Taylor was loaded – look at this house. She didn't need the money, and he couldn't see her lowering herself to waitressing just for kicks. So why?

He expected her to yell at him again, or threaten to call the police. Instead her shoulders dropped and she turned to him, eyes still on the floor.

"Let me take a shower first. Then I'll explain." She moved off toward the door, but paused. "You know, since you won't _leave_."

She left the room and he smiled. At least the real Taylor was in there, somewhere, if her last comment was any indication.

That had to mean she was ok, right?

* * *

The water was only warm now; she could feel it getting cooler and cooler by the second.

She was procrastinating, she knew.

But once her shower was done, she'd have to go talk to him.

Well, she _could_ go in there and tell him to get the hell out, but she wasn't sure that would work and she wasn't sure she _wanted_ him to leave.

She didn't need a friend. She didn't need help. She didn't need pity.

But maybe she needed someone to listen to her. Maybe she needed someone to help sort out her problems. Maybe she needed someone to tell her that her life didn't completely suck. To tell her that her life wasn't pointless.

To tell her that maybe – _maybe_ – it was still worth living.

Because she wasn't so sure anymore.

_

* * *

_

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	5. Club Foot

_So it's after midnight and I just got home from work and I know I SHOULD sleep, since I've been up since 6:30 this morning, but I can't seem to do it. So here's to insomnia!_

_Enjoy!_

_Music: there he goes again, take me to the edge again, all I got is a dirty trick, I'm chasing down the wolves to save you_

* * *

"I guess we'll start with the job thing."

They were sitting in her room – she on the bed, he on her desk chair. He stayed silent and waited for her to speak. Hell, he'd waited this long – she'd taken the longest fucking shower he'd ever been witness to – he could wait while she decided what to say.

"I have no money." Now that was unexpected. But he stayed silent, and she sighed in annoyance. "My old lawyer… isn't too happy with me, so he's tying up all the paperwork for my mom's accounts. He's also trying to convince the insurance company that my mother got drunk and ran into a pole on purpose so they won't pay her life insurance. I'm supposed to have my trust fund, but I spent nearly all of that last summer trying to get away from her. So now I have nothing."

"Why don't you tell Sandy…"

"You don't get it," she interrupted, starting to pick at her nails. "Bills are expensive. This house… it uses a lot of electricity and I already fired all the help and I keep all the lights off unless it's completely necessary and I buy the minimal amount of food. But I have to pay the tuition for the rest of the school year, and I have car insurance on two cars, and homeowners insurance. I got rid of the cable, but I have to keep the internet, because I have to do homework, and then there's cell phone bills and lawyer fees and the funeral costs and it's too much. My trust will be completely wiped out in less than a month. So I got a job."

"Tell Sandy."

"So he can… what? Worry more that he can't get my old lawyer to back the hell off? Offer to work pro-bono? That's not fair to him. He can't do anything for me – he's already doing too much. I know he probably likes to think it, but he's not Superman."

"I know. But he can help with the bills and stuff. Like, get it sorted out?"

"I don't need your help."

Alright. He was done with this. "No, you don't _want_ our help. You _do_ need it."

"And what happens if I tell him? Then he'll tell Kirsten, and then all of Newport will know…"

"Kirsten's not like that," he gritted out, feeling the anger rise.

"It doesn't matter. You know what this place is like. The minute more than two people know a secret, everyone knows it."

He stayed silent for a while, because something was nagging at him. Something that seemed important…

"Why'd you fire your old lawyer?" Her head shot up in surprise. "Maybe if we can fix things with him, he'll drop the shit."

He watched her stiffen up and her face harden. "I refuse to _fix_ things with him. I don't care if I need the money. I refuse to be someone's _whore_."

What?

* * *

She wasn't _quite_ sure why she told him… _everything_.

Everything about McMahon – how he'd given her the ultimatum of _bend over his desk or have her case be put last on his list_. Everything about her financial problems - how she couldn't pay her bills. Everything about her new job – how she'd gotten thrown up on and that greasy wash boy.

She told him about the hollow ache in her chest, how it wouldn't go away.

She told him how she could barely keep down a meal anymore. He asked if she was pregnant, she told him no. He asked her again if she was bulimic, she told him no. He asked if she was sick, she told him just in the head.

That had made him laugh.

Now she was sitting on her kitchen counter with a tub of ice cream as he sat on the kitchen island with a spoon, leaning over every once in a while to steal some of her snack. It wasn't alcohol, but somehow, ice cream seemed just as good right now.

And she felt – for the first time in… too long – normal.

The ache was still there, but it wasn't as cold anymore.

She'd always thought that bullshit about _sharing your feelings_ was just that – bullshit. But maybe these therapist people actually had something here. For the first time in her life, she told someone how she really felt and they didn't laugh.

He didn't laugh and he didn't tell her she was just being a whiny brat.

He listened to her; waited for her to finish speaking before adding simple, calm, logical answers or comments.

"Keep your head low," he was saying as he leaned over and dug his spoon into her ice cream. She pretended to glare at him like all the other times he stole some of her ice cream and he shot her a grin. "That way, no one will think to talk to you. It's amazing how people will ignore you if you keep your head low."

"But won't management _frown_ on that? Aren't I supposed to be all friendly and helpful?"

"No. You're not a waitress, you just bus tables. If you see someone who looks annoyed or looks like they have a question, just duck your head and keep walking. And avoid babies."

"So how'd you get so knowledgeable about busing tables?"

"I've had a lot of jobs," he shrugged. She nodded and stared down at her ice cream.

"I think I'm gonna sell my mom's car." She flicked her eyes up to see his reaction, but he was just watching her with his steady gaze. "You know, cause of the insurance. And I don't need it."

"That's reasonable."

"And I think… I think I'm gonna sell the house, too."

"Why?"

She didn't answer right away, because he hadn't asked the question out of curiosity. It was like he was helping her sound out her decision. So she thought hard about her answer.

"Because, again, the insurance. And the bills. The money from the sale would be a lot and I could get a smaller house or an apartment and use the money for that. And… well, what am I supposed to do with all of this?" She waved her spoon in the vague direction of the rest of the house. "I'm only one person. I don't need… this."

"I think you should let Sandy help you with that."

He was on that again.

"I don't want anyone knowing. Don't tell Sandy. Any of this."

He nodded and put down his spoon, hopping off the counter. Apparently he knew a dismissal when he heard it. She saw him out, thanking him for letting her ramble.

"Promise me you won't tell Sandy," she insisted when he was standing on her porch. He hesitated for a second before nodding.

"Promise."

Then he turned and started walking. And when he started up his car and pulled out of the driveway, she shut the door and turned to her dark house.

Her giant, empty, dark house.

* * *

Stupid promises.

He should tell Sandy – he knew he should. But she'd made him promise not to, so when he got home and Sandy asked what had taken so long, he lied. He told Sandy Taylor had taken a while getting home – she was probably out doing whatever teenage Newpsies did – and he'd waited around to make sure she was alright. Sandy just nodded and continued watching TV with Kirsten.

One week. He wouldn't tell Sandy for a week.

If she got things under control on her own, he wouldn't ever have to tell Sandy. But if she continued on like she was, he'd break his promise.

He sighed and sat on his bed, digging his cell phone out of his pocket. He had a text message from Seth, asking him where he was, and two calls from home. And he had a voicemail, from Marissa.

Did he want to listen?

Not really, but he did anyway.

She wanted to have breakfast with him tomorrow, before school. Against his better judgment, he called her back and agreed to meet her at the diner.

* * *

She was a little surprised no one knew.

Honestly, she thought the entire school would know by now that Taylor Townsend was working in a restaurant because she was broke. But it was fifth period and not one single person had said anything. Apparently Ryan had kept his word and hadn't told anyone.

Good God, the Cohens were just so _moral_.

Not that she wasn't grateful, this time, but still. Couldn't they at least have one flaw? Just one, so whenever she saw one of them, she didn't get that cold feeling in the pit of her stomach?

There it was again.

Off in the quad, Ryan, Seth and Summer were walking. Seth made some grand gesture with his hands and Summer hit his arm while Ryan laughed.

She really hoped she didn't die anytime soon. She wanted a little more time before she had to see her mother again.

Because she would.

Because she was going to hell.

Envy was a sin, right?

* * *

"So she didn't really answer?"

Ryan sighed, leaning back on the couch. "I asked her point blank if she wanted to break up with me, and she just gave me that bullshit answer about the situation being _too complicated_ for a black and white answer."

"That sucks."

Well, that was an understatement. He felt like he was in some sort of holding pattern – like he couldn't move forward or backward. He was just… stuck. In a relationship, but not.

Sometimes he wondered why it seemed so easy for Seth and Summer. Sure, they broke up and had fights, but that was usually them just being stupid and stubborn. Eventually they realized they were being idiots and got back together.

But with him and Marissa, it never seemed like it was stubbornness. They didn't break up angrily, like Seth and Summer did. They broke up… wearily. Slowly. There wasn't ever an angry breakup, where they hated each other.

Each time, they stayed 'friends' and they somehow got together again.

He wondered, sometimes; if he and Marissa hadn't stayed friends – if they'd broken up angrily – would they ever have gotten back together? Seth and Summer seemed to have this… magnetic force that kept dragging them back to each other, but he and Marissa kept coming together because they were… there.

They would be friends and then somehow, they'd end up kissing and they'd be back together.

Over and over again.

He felt like he wasn't moving at all.

* * *

"Taylor."

Marissa's surprised voice greeted her when she walked into the classroom. She set her binder down on the table and took her usual seat.

"Sorry I'm late," she apologized. Not because she was actually sorry, but because it was polite.

"We didn't think you were coming," Marissa continued, warily. "We started without you."

"Why wouldn't I be coming?" Everyone was looking at her, and she felt a chill run through her veins.

"Well," Marissa gave a small, wary, smile. "With everything that's been going on with you… the circumstances… we just thought…"

"That because my mom died, I'd want to curl up in the fetal position and never leave my room?" Her tone made some of the girls flinch, and she inwardly sighed. "As much as I'd love to do that, I actually welcome the distraction. So, we're planning for the winter formal, right?"

"Taylor," Marissa's voice was filled with sympathy, and she couldn't tell if it was real or fake. "Why don't you take some time off? We fear you may get overwhelmed with… _everything_." She opened her mouth to argue, but the other girl spoke first. "Don't worry, we'll handle everything. Why don't you give Shannon your binder, and we'll do our best to keep your ideas on track."

She looked around the table and realized that not one of these girls was going to argue with the social chair. So she stood up and handed her binder to Shannon – who averted her gaze – before heading out of the room.

Three years, Marissa'd been trying to get her kicked out of social committee. Looked like she found the perfect excuse.

Go figure her mother had something to do with it.

_

* * *

_

review


	6. Across the Universe

_Alright, I've been working on 'Fallen' for... like, three months before I started posting, so I have a bunch of chapters written and I'm trying NOT to post them too quickly (because I don't know where to go with this story) but I can't help it. So I hope you all enjoy this chapter, because I do._

_p.s. - whitelilly, your LT one-shot should be up soon. Tonight, probably._

_Music: nothing's gonna change my world_

* * *

Out of all the people he'd ever befriended, Taylor Townsend was definitely the strangest.

And taking Seth into consideration, that was saying something.

He just couldn't figure her out. With Seth, he always knew what was coming. He could always predict what his brother would say – or, maybe not the _exact_ words, because the boy had a way with phrases, but the general response. Not with Taylor. He could never tell whether he'd get some bitchy Newport comment, or something actually really insightful.

Maybe that's why he kept coming back.

It was a routine now. He'd come over after dinner to check up on her and they'd talk for a while, then he'd leave. He didn't tell Seth or Summer or Marissa – because God forbid he talk to another girl – or even the Cohens. Well, the Cohens knew he was checking up on her, that's what got this started in the first place. They just didn't know the extent of what went on.

He didn't tell them anything, because she asked him not to. He just listened to her – she told him about her awful job, how Marissa kicked her out of social committee, how she barely paid the bills this month. He helped her sell her mom's car – she hadn't wanted anyone to know, so he recommended a place and picked her up there after she sold it.

He still wasn't sure why he was doing it, though. Marissa would get so pissed if she ever found out, and he was sure Seth and Summer would never let it go. But it felt nice to help someone who didn't ask for it, who didn't _need_ it. It was nice not having to worry about being a good person, because Taylor sure as hell didn't expect it of him. She didn't seem to expect _anyone_ to be a good person.

Alright, so she was a little depressing sometimes with her lack of faith in humanity, but it got him out of the house, where he'd just be sitting around with Seth playing video games and waiting for Marissa to call.

Because he had to face it, his life was basically spent waiting around for Marissa Cooper.

* * *

God help her, she was actually _smiling_.

She couldn't help it, though. She felt… light.

The money from her mom's car would last her a while, she hadn't thrown up in over a month, and she'd gotten a rhythm down at work. If she'd known, before, what human interaction could be like, she'd have tried harder to make friends.

She wasn't actually sure Ryan was her friend, technically. They didn't talk in school, they didn't watch movies or play games or… do whatever it was friends did. She tried to think of what friends did on TV – besides stab each other in the back and fight over boys.

It didn't matter. She was Taylor Townsend – she'd make her own rules. She was just grateful to have someone who knew secretive places to sell your mother's car and how to fix sinks. Her kitchen sink had clogged up last week and he'd saved her a plumber's bill, for which she was eternally grateful.

Of course, she was Taylor Townsend, so instead of thanking him like a normal human being, she told him it figured he'd be good at manual labor.

Because he used to be poor, get it?

She really was going to hell.

But he'd laughed and told her she was a bitch and everything seemed to work out.

She couldn't keep relying on him, though; she couldn't keep sitting around and whining all the time, which was why she was here – at her old lawyer's office. She took a deep breath and went in. The lobby was such a contrast to Sandy's – sleek, modern, clean.

Sandy's felt nicer, though.

"Miss Townsend," the secretary greeted in her nasally voice. "Mr. McMahon will see you now." She nodded and went into his office and didn't sit down, even when he gestured for her to.

"Now, Miss Townsend, what can I do for you?" He gave her a smug smile that made her want to slap him.

"You could stop trying to mess with me, for starters."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," his mouth said, but she heard '_no_'.

She saw right through him.

"Stop holding Mr. Cohen up, stop trying to convince the insurance company her death was suicide. That's just low, even for you."

He laughed lightly and stood up, moving around the desk. She held her ground and glared at him. "Now Miss Townsend, you make me sound horrible. I'm not."

"No," she sneered. "You're just a sad old man who likes to hit on girls half their age a week after their mother dies. And then when they won't do what you want – because, ew – you try to make their lives a living hell. You're right, that's not horrible at all."

Anger flashed in his eyes and he gave her a tight smile.

* * *

"Hey, where were you?"

He stood up and brushed his jeans off as she came up the steps, pulling her keys out of her purse. He'd come over at his normal time, but she hadn't been there, so he waited. She brushed past him without a word and went in. He followed.

"I brought leftovers," he held up a bag – carefully prepared by Kirsten.

"I'm not hungry."

He watched her put a hand over her stomach and he frowned. She told him she'd stopped throwing up a while ago, but she didn't look so good right now. "What happened?"

"Nothing. Go away. I'm fine."

"Well, that was convincing," he monotoned, leaning up against the counter as he watched her stare at the wall.

"I went to see my old lawyer," she started, her voice low. "I told him to leave me alone. He tried to... nevermind."

"What?" He stood up straight, feeling all the muscles in his body tighten. 'Nevermind' had a definite implication, but he made himself calm down – this was Taylor Townsend, she could be exaggerating. Or lying outright.

"He didn't," she turned to look at him. "I kicked him in the shin and left." She took a deep breath, then started pacing. "Shit!" she hissed under her breath. "He's never gonna let this go now. And he'll probably find some new way to torture me…"

"Taylor," he interrupted. "You have to tell Sandy."

"No. He'll just worry and want to prosecute or something."

"Yeah, that's kinda the point," he ground out. He didn't feel like dealing with her _independence_ shit right now. He wanted her to tell Sandy, so _someone_ would do something. So he wouldn't go down to the guy's office and beat the living shit out of him.

"I can't deal with that right now," she sighed, still pacing. "He didn't _actually_ do anything, and if Sandy tries to accuse him, it'll just… make everything a bigger mess than it already is. I just want to get my mom's stuff sorted out and get on with my life. I don't want to have to worry about some perv who gets too handsy when he doesn't get his way."

"That's stupid," he growled. "You can't let him get away with it."

"He didn't," she protested, frowning. "I kicked him in the shin, remember?"

"Ok, kicking him in the shin and him getting sent to jail? Not the same thing."

She stopped pacing and gave him a small smile. "Thank you, really. I don't think anyone's ever been angry on my behalf before, but I'm fine. I know I should do what's 'right', but I'd rather not deal with it. I can't afford to prolong this and I can't afford more lawyer fees."

"Fine. Can I at least pound the shit out of him?"

"No."

"Fine."

She smiled again. "Thank you. And don't tell Sandy any of this."

It was their standard goodbyes. _Don't tell Sandy any of this_. And he'd always say…

"Sure."

She followed him to the door and watched him leave. It was their standard goodbyes, except this time he wasn't so sure he could follow through.

* * *

She took a very hot, very long shower after Ryan left.

She needed to scrub off the feeling of Phil McMahon – the feeling of him pressing her against the closed door, his hand shoved under her skirt, his hot breath on her neck as he asked her _if she didn't want to fuck him, why would she wear a skirt when she came to see him?_

After her shower, she went downstairs and opened the bag Ryan had left. It was like a packed lunch for a little kid – a turkey sandwich, a few cookies in a plastic bag, and a can of Coke. She felt an infinite rush of gratitude when she took out the soda. Because Kirsten had given her Coke.

_Regular_.

Her mother always made her drink diet.

She ate and tried to think of anything other than her old lawyer. It didn't really work. She still felt his hand on her leg. Even when she closed her eyes and shook her head – like that would somehow make the memory fly out of her brain – she still felt it.

When she went up to her room to sleep, she tried to see if she could replace the feeling. So she put her hand on her leg – right where she still felt him – and tried to memorize how her own hand felt. It worked for a while, until she took her hand off.

She sighed, resigned to the fact that it wasn't going away. Stupid Phil McMahon. And when she closed her eyes, she could still see him.

Alright, if he wasn't going to go away, maybe she could _make_ him. In her head, she stood to the side as Ryan – what was the phrase? – pounded the shit out of him. She watched her old lawyer fall to the ground and she smiled at Ryan and he smiled back.

* * *

"Hey, where were you?" her soft voice called to him when he got out of his car and he closed his eyes to see if she'd go away.

"Just out doing some errands." She came to stand next to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you," she sighed. "I've missed you."

He still felt the thrill go through his stomach, still felt the way his heart raced whenever she touched him. Even her words made his head spin, but he detangled himself and stepped back.

"You were the one who wanted space," he reminded her, trying to think clearly over the buzz in his head.

"I know, but…"

"No." He sighed when she recoiled, looking hurt. "Look, I can't do this right now. I just… I have stuff to do."

"Fine, I'll leave," she pouted and he could feel the pounding in his head start. He couldn't deal with this. Not tonight.

"Marissa." She stopped and turned back to him, hopefully. "You have to decide. I'm not doing this anymore. Do you want me or not?"

"It's not that simple…"

"Yeah, it is. It's black and white, yes or no. Go home, think about it. Give me your answer in school tomorrow."

She didn't say anything else as she left and he waited until her car backed out of the drive to go inside. He was probably too harsh with her, but he couldn't help it. His head hurt and he was still fighting with himself over what he was supposed to do about Taylor.

He could lie to Sandy about the money thing, because he knew – from personal experience – that a person could live with little money. It wasn't vital, it wasn't life-threatening. And he kept the fact that she was getting sick from Sandy, because she swore it was just stress and she stopped. He kept the work from Sandy, because that was her business and he was actually proud of her for being proactive about her life.

But rape?

Even attempted rape; even just some perverted old guy getting too grabby with his client. He wasn't sure he could hide that.

He wasn't sure he wanted to.

_

* * *

_

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	7. Kids

_Plot, meet breaking point._

_Enjoy._

_Music: control yourself; take only what you need from me_

* * *

She'd come to terms with her tentative friendship with Ryan. She was ok with it, she was used to it, it was nice.

What she hadn't banked on, though, were the intense sex dreams that came with it.

Seriously, she had _no_ idea where those came from.

Sure, she'd noticed that Ryan Atwood was good looking – or, if she were to quote the rest of the girls at the school: _hot_. But he was from Chino and permanently attached to Marissa Cooper and therefore invisible to her when it came to possible mate selection.

At least until now, apparently.

Her dreams had started off as a way to forget her God awful ex-lawyer – every time she felt his hand on her leg, she'd think of Ryan - her only friend, the only good thing in her life right now. She'd think of Ryan – standing above McMahon, angry and powerful, fists clenched and ready to be used again. So she guessed it was just a small step from comfort to sex.

Really, really _hot_ sex.

She closed her locker harder than necessary and ignored the looks she got from the other students. She needed to get under control.

She was Taylor Townsend, damnit.

* * *

He walked away from her and didn't look back.

He'd asked for a decision.

Yes or no.

Black or white.

She'd given him grey.

So he told her it was over. If she couldn't do it, he'd make the decision for her – they were over.

She'd gotten those tears in her eyes that always made him crumble, but he didn't do it this time. If she couldn't decide whether she wanted to be with him or not, then she obviously didn't. If she loved him like she said, it would be easy to choose, right?

So they were done.

"Sorry, man."

He looked over at his brother and wondered how someone so self involved could automatically know what had happened.

"It's ok. I think it was coming for a while."

"Yeah, that doesn't mean it doesn't suck, though," his brother comforted, leaning back against the couch.

* * *

"Hey."

His voice sent a thrill through her, but she held it together and closed her locker.

"Hello, Ryan." She kept her voice formal, because she wasn't sure if he wanted people to know they were friends… or whatever the hell they were.

"The Cohens wanted to invite you over for dinner tonight." He leaned up against the locker next to hers and she hugged her books to her chest so he couldn't see her treacherous hands shaking. "You probably have to work, but I figured I'd invite you anyway."

"I don't have to work," she cut in hurriedly. "I'll be there."

"Alright." He actually gave her a smile as he pushed off the lockers and she waved at him as he walked away. It was a stupid, perky, nervous wave and when he was gone, she resisted the urge to slam her head against the lockers. She was such a spaz.

To be fair, though, she hadn't had a crush in… a really long time. Not since her piano teacher in seventh grade…

She wouldn't think of that.

Ryan wasn't like that guy.

Ryan was _perfect_.

* * *

He was setting plates down on the table for dinner and ignoring the strange clenching in his stomach when the doorbell rang. Sandy went to answer it and he could hear his and Taylor's voices from the foyer.

She'd seemed better today in school. Happier, more like her old, perky, annoying self. Maybe he was actually getting to her.

Which should be a good thing, but he could only feel anxious.

"Thank you so much for inviting me, Mrs. Cohen," Taylor smiled as she came into the kitchen. He was afforded a brief look, but she was obviously unsure whether he was ok with the Cohens knowing they were friends.

Too late now.

"It's no problem, Taylor," Kirsten led the girl to the table. "We ordered lots of food, so help yourself. Eat as much as you want."

Shit.

"Thanks, Mrs. Cohen," Taylor tried to smile, but her eyebrows furrowed, like something was off.

Shit.

"Now, Taylor," Sandy leaned up against the counter, pretending to be casual. "I was thinking that my office could use some good publicity. Pro bono work, you know? And I was thinking, with McMahon freezing your accounts, maybe I could work pro bono for you."

Shit.

Shit. Stop, Sandy.

"What?" She froze in place, hand on the back of the chair she'd been offered. Confusion from before hardened into fear and near certainty, but Sandy didn't see that.

"Well, it would be good publicity for me and you wouldn't have to pay unnecessary bills…"

Oh _shit_.

Her mouth opened but nothing came out and her eyes flicked over to him; accusations clear. He ducked his head and heard her exhale, hand tightening on the back of the chair.

He shouldn't have told Sandy. He should've kept his promise. But everything with Taylor and her secrets and Marissa and the breakup had been too much. It was too much - too many secrets, too many lies, too much damned drama; something had to give.

He sighed and raised his head to look at her – at the anger in her gaze. "Look, Taylor…"

"I have to go," she whispered hurriedly and grabbed her purse. Sandy opened his mouth to say something, but she rushed past him and they all heard the door open and close.

Silence filled the kitchen.

"Did I miss something?" Seth asked, coming into the room.

* * *

She sat on the bathroom floor and closed her eyes.

She wouldn't throw up.

She wouldn't.

The nausea hit, but she managed to keep her lunch down. She wasn't going to let the stupid Cohens upset her like this anymore. And she sure as hell wasn't going to let _Ryan_ upset her like this. He wasn't worth it; getting upset, losing her cool, losing her control. None of this was worth it; nothing helped.

Tomorrow she was going to call Sandy and fire him. Then she'd find a lawyer who wouldn't meddle; who didn't have a son to follow her around and mess everything up.

It wasn't really Ryan's fault, though; it was hers. She should've listened to her head, because she _knew_ trust wasn't real. You couldn't trust anyone, even if it seemed like they earned it.

_Especially_ when it seemed like they earned it.

"Taylor?"

She heard his voice echo through her house – her giant, empty house – and she remembered she hadn't locked the front door in her rush to get to the bathroom. He called for her again and she stayed silent, hoping he wouldn't find her.

Except the light was on, so she stood slowly and turned it off, keeping her breathing shallow and soft.

"Taylor, I know you're here. You're car's outside."

Great deduction, Sherlock. Now, couldn't he figure out she didn't want him here?

Apparently not, because she heard him moving around and she knew that eventually he'd look in the bathroom. Maybe she could slip out and go somewhere he'd already checked? That sounded like a good plan, so she opened the door slowly and peeked out – nothing.

She made sure to take off her shoes and she tiptoed down the hall, toward the kitchen.

"Taylor?"

His voice echoed from somewhere behind her and she hurried, making it to the kitchen, only to remember that the kitchen was _huge_. If he walked by one of the entrances, he'd see her. Her heart pounded in her chest as she thought out her next move. She needed to get somewhere where he wouldn't find her. Somewhere he wouldn't think to look.

She could hide under her bed. Why would he look there for her?

She took a deep breath and smoothed out her skirt before creeping to the doorway. He hadn't called her name in a while, but he hadn't left, either. She had no idea where he was and it was _freaking_ her out. She stuck her head out of the door and looked both ways before stepping into the darkened hall; feet padding silently on the hardwood floors.

She was almost to the stairwell when he grabbed her arm.

"Hiding from me?"

She twisted to look at him, narrowing her eyes. "Yes. Apparently you don't take a hint, though," she spat, trying to sound as venomous as possible. Maybe he'd leave, then. Maybe he'd leave before he saw what he'd done to her.

"You left before I could explain myself," he reasoned, voice dangerously calm – like _he_ was the wronged one here.

"I don't care, Ryan. I'm not angry." Well, that was a lie, but he didn't need to know that he'd… hurt her. She refused to acknowledge that.

"Really? So running away, that was because you were _happy_ I told them?"

"No, I left because you telling them made me remember I didn't want to be there." Her eyes had adjusted enough to the dark to see his jaw tighten; his eyes glint like steel.

"I was just trying to help you," he growled lowly, eyes narrowing.

"I don't need your help."

"Drop the tough girl act," he ordered, keeping his voice low. "I don't buy it."

"It's not an act," she hissed back, regaining enough of her senses to try to pull her arm away from his grip. He didn't budge, even when she brought her other hand up to try and peel him off. "Just go away."

"No."

"I don't need you," she protested again; desperately, as she tugged her arm. "Go work your hero act with someone who cares-"

"Why do you always have to be such an annoying bitch?"

"Because I can," she challenged, voice hard and low; mocking.

_Because I can._

_Because I have to be._

* * *

He wasn't sure how he ended up here, in Taylor Townsend's bedroom with his shirt half off and her hand down his pants and her lips hot and soft and compliant under his. It was a flurry of motion, hurried stumbling up the stairs, fumbled attempts to rid themselves of clothing , heavy breathing and quiet moans, hot and dark and dizzying.

He couldn't tell if it was his way of dealing with Marissa or the irritation of arguing with Taylor or just the general frustration with his life, but he was here and it felt good; she was comfort and oblivion, soft and warm underneath him. He lost himself in the feel of her, the noises she made, the taste of her skin, the thrum of her blood in her veins, pulsing under his fingertips.

She was alive; she was warm and alive and humming with energy and touching her was like touching a live wire; like a jolt of energy.

Like feeling again.

_

* * *

_

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	8. Real Love

_You may actually hate me for this... umm... yeah._

_Music: I don't care about real love, I just want a world that'll bear its own weight_

* * *

Of all the stupid things to do.

Of all the reckless, pointless, _stupid_ things to do.

She was so angry she could scream.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

Stupid brain, stupid body, stupid hormones, stupid judgment.

Stupid Atwood.

She was so angry she could scream… or cry, she couldn't decide which.

The room was pitch black, faint moonlight cutting stripes across her bedroom floor; across her feet as she stood up in the still of the room. She could hear his breathing – steady and rhythmic – coming from the bed; could see his vague outline as he lay – sleeping and beautiful – in the aftermath.

She found herself in the bathroom, the tile cold against her bare feet, the thin fabric of the t-shirt she wore barely keeping the winter chill at bay. She should take a shower; wash the smell off; the traces of him. The feel of his hands; of his lips; of his body.

She needed to wash him off.

And maybe if she was lucky – but when was she ever? – he'd be gone when she finished. He didn't seem like a heavy sleeper – maybe the sound of the shower would wake him up and he would just take a hint and leave. Although, considering his past record in the _leaving her alone_ department, that wasn't likely.

She just didn't want to face him – tell him to get out. She didn't feel like doing it; she wasn't sure she _could_. She couldn't help herself around him.

It was all his fault, too – making her feel again; making her think he was her friend; making her trust him. It was all his fault that she was powerless against him; helpless against the steady hold of his eyes; the hypnotic way he gazed at her.

Oh, she was a stupid, stupid girl.

* * *

He woke up to nothing.

Well, not _nothing_; there was a soft mattress under him, cool air in the room. But it was dark, pitch black and eerily silent and he blinked rapidly to try and refocus his eyes. He tried to get his brain to remember where he was – quickly ruling out his house in Chino and the pool house. Seth's room? No, no hint of snores or whiny indie music.

Plus, he was naked, so he really, _really_ hoped he wasn't in Seth's room.

He swung his feet off the bed and stood up, taking a step forward – only to stop when he stepped on something soft and squishy. It was a doll – one of those Care Bear things with a rain cloud on its stomach and he had a flash – of soft moans in his ear as he scattered pillows and the blue toy off the bed before throwing her down on it.

Right. Taylor.

His hand went automatically to run over his face as he sighed. It probably hadn't been the _healthiest_ thing to do – sleeping with her. Especially since he'd only just broken up with Marissa that morning. Yeah, he was a saint.

He scanned the ground for some trace of his clothes – ignoring the sock in the corner; that was useless. His boxers were nearly kicked under the bed and he pulled them on before figuring out what to do. Well, he'd figure out what to do _after_ he went to the bathroom.

The bathroom wasn't too hard to find, but his progress was kind of hindered by her standing in the doorway. Which also solved the mystery of where his shirt had gone. He sighed loudly and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Hey."

She jumped, bare feet swiveling on the tile to face him. Her eyes widened, like she was surprised to see him.

"Hi, Ryan." Her hands strayed to the bottom of the t-shirt, pulling it down to make sure she was covered – which he actually thought was pointless, it's not like he hadn't already seen it.

"I guess I should go," he shrugged nervously. She nodded and they stood in silence. "Um… my shirt?"

"Oh, right." There was an awkward moment where she seemed to debate how best to go about giving it back. Finally she just pulled it off and handed it to him, not meeting his gaze, and he diverted his. He pulled his shirt on and went back into her bedroom to find his pants.

She followed him in and crossed the room to her closet. He couldn't help sneaking a look over his shoulder as she opened it and grabbed another shirt for herself. Her skin was pale and smooth in the moonlight and he forced himself to look away as she put the shirt on.

"I guess I'll see you in school tomorrow," he ventured and she nodded, still avoiding his eyes. "Bye."

"Bye."

* * *

She kept her head low the next day at school as she walked through the halls.

By third period, she'd heard all about Ryan and Marissa's breakup. She couldn't decide whether that was a good thing or not. On one hand, it was nice to know she hadn't helped him cheat on his girlfriend.

But on the other, she couldn't get rid of the sick feeling in her stomach, because she was obviously just a rebound.

Not that she'd been expecting anything to happen with Ryan; she wasn't so naïve. What happened… what they'd _done_ was a one-shot deal; she knew that. It was just… she'd been hoping it'd happened because he'd actually _wanted_ her, not because he was getting over Marissa.

Of all the stupid things to do.

* * *

It was weird; the amount of gossip going around school. Everyone was acting like this breakup was some huge deal, like it was the biggest event in Newport history.

Hadn't they seen it coming?

Looking back, it was so obvious. All those months; all that time spent on their 'break', it was so obvious. He hadn't seen it then, because God help him, he loved the girl and there was still some tiny, idiot part of him that believed they could actually work out. But he could see it now; it'd been obvious the whole time that this breakup was inevitable.

He was never going to get the girl, no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried. He wasn't going to get the girl because she couldn't seem to be happy with him.

He was happy with her. When he was dating her, it was like a mixture of undiluted excitement, hope, and disbelief. And she acted the same way; for a while at least. But every time – every damn time – it always started to fade; she always found something more interesting. Something more exciting.

She didn't want a relationship; not like he did.

He'd had enough excitement in his life, enough random people, enough being passed around, enough movement to last him ten lifetimes. He wanted to settle down. Well, maybe not settle down like _get married_ – because the thought of marriage made him have panic attacks – but settle down and live quietly.

He wanted a girlfriend he could watch movies with; sit on the couch and eat popcorn and not have to go out and do something _exciting_ every night. He wanted a girlfriend that'd be ok with his lack of talking, that wouldn't expect more from him than he could give. He wanted a girlfriend that would be satisfied with what he had to offer; not constantly be looking for something _else_.

He loved Marissa but it wasn't ever going to work. And on some level, Marissa knew it, too. It was why she hadn't been able to give him a straight answer; it was why she kept putting off the inevitable.

She loved him, but they would never work.

* * *

Work was actually better than it had been in a while.

Maybe people sensed her depression or maybe it was just a slow night, but either way, it was nice. The wash boy – Marco, as she'd come to find his name was – didn't hit on her once. He was actually really nice tonight; he'd given her a lot of compliments that weren't sleazy. Sheila had patted her shoulder at one point and told her to _hang in there_.

Hal was his normal grumpy self, but no surprise there.

Even the customers left her alone to sulk. A couple of them even smiled at her and thanked her for doing her job.

Maybe she should be this pathetic more often.

And she felt slightly better as she drove home after her shift – Sheila had bought her a cup of hot chocolate and hugged her goodbye. She was a nice woman and she tried not to think that her coworker was a better mother than her own had been.

But when she got home and went up to her room she found Ryan lying on her bed, holding onto Grumpy Bear. She'd forgotten that she'd shown him the key to her house a month ago – it was stupid for him to sit on her porch, waiting for her to get done with her shift. So she'd told him where it was hidden so he could wait inside for her.

She was such a stupid girl.

"Ryan."

"Hey, Taylor." He sat up abruptly, shoving the bear under her pillow, like he didn't want her to see him playing with it. If she didn't have such a black pit where her heart should be, she would've found the movement adorable.

"Come back for seconds?" She turned away from him to throw her apron in the hamper, silently cursing herself. Why the hell had she said that? It was stupid and juvenile and she just wanted to say the right things to make him go away.

"No." She heard the bed creak as he stood up and she glanced over her shoulder at him. He was rubbing the back of his neck, like he was uncomfortable. "It's just… I guess you heard about me and Marissa?"

"What? That you broke up? Ryan, Helen Keller could've heard that rumor today in school." Oh, great. Reference Helen Keller, that didn't make her sound like a horrible human being. Not at all. While she was at it, why not pick on Gandhi or Mother Theresa or the Pope? Or kittens.

People liked kittens, right?

"I just wanted to apologize. You know, for last night… I was outta line."

"Don't," she shrugged, keeping her back to him. "There were two people in that room, Ryan. You don't need to apologize – although it is nice to know I didn't help you cheat."

"Yeah. But it was wrong; I shouldn't have… I feel like I used you, and I'm sorry. You don't deserve that."

She wanted to tell him that yes, she did. She deserved every horrible thing that happened to her. But she didn't say it, because the last thing she needed was Ryan being all sincere and telling her she _meant _something. That she had _value_ beyond 'rebound'.

"It's ok."

"So… we're good?"

"We're fine, Ryan." She turned to face him, finally. He looked so upset, she wished he could just get it through his head that he didn't have to worry. Not about her.

She wasn't worth it.

"Friends?"

"Sure." She gave him her best smile and stuck out her hand for him to shake. After a few awkward, confused moments, he shook it.

"I guess I'll see you around."

"I guess."

He nodded and left the room and she let out a sigh of relief. When she finally heard the front door open and close, she fell onto her bed and dug Grumpy Bear out from under her pillow, curling into a ball around him and falling asleep.

_

* * *

_

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	9. Static

_I suppose I should clear some things up. One, no, Seth and Summer and everyone else won't be making much of an appearence in here; really only in brief passing. Two, I've finally decided how I'm ending this story, so I won't be dragging it out too long. And three, I feel like I keep saying this, but I absolutely adore this fic and I hope you all do too. Although you'll probably hate me for this chapter..._

_Try to enjoy!_

_Music: don't know if I want you to see through me; I confess this heavy heart has me on my knees_

* * *

He'd expected to feel liberated.

No girlfriend, no drama, no problems.

Well, Seth and Summer were having problems, but then that wasn't really _news_. He wasn't quite sure what was going on with them because – for once – Seth was keeping his mouth shut. He figured it was about college, though; something about them both applying to Brown? For some reason, he thought only one kid from Harbor could get into Brown, so why had they both applied?

Maybe Seth _had_ told him; maybe Seth had been talking nonstop about whatever his problem was since it started. He couldn't be sure; he'd stopped paying attention to things.

Breaking up with Marissa had been the right thing to do; he knew it, she knew it - hell, everyone knew it. She'd even moved on – she was dating that Johnny kid from Union.

The one who'd been 'just a friend'.

He should feel liberated, but he didn't. He just felt… stuck. Like everything was moving on around him, but he wasn't going anywhere. Even his own life was moving without him – he'd applied to college. He went to school every day and came home and hung out with Seth and Summer and had dinner with the Cohens.

His life was happening and it was like he didn't even notice it.

Somewhere along the way, he'd given up trying to care.

* * *

Her apartment was… nice, she guessed.

Kind of small.

But compared to her house – her _old_ house – anything would seem small. Plus, that was the point, right? Cut down on costs. She didn't _need_ the extra room, the excess stuff. Now she had just the essentials – bedroom, bathroom, living room, kitchen.

Mr. Cohen had helped her find the place.

After Ryan told the Cohens about her problems, she'd tried to fire him, but he'd refused to let her. Which was weird – you can't just _refuse_ to be fired. But Mr. Cohen had somehow convinced her to keep him on as her lawyer, and he'd helped her set up a savings fund and sell her house and find this apartment.

So now she was here and she felt – for the first time since her mother's death – truly alone.

Sure, she had Mr. Cohen to talk to and she went to school and saw people there, but it wasn't the same. Back at her house, she'd always _felt_ her mother's presence – stamped on every surface. The woman may have been physically gone, but her memory definitely stuck around. But now she had this new apartment and her mother was _gone_.

It was strangely depressing.

Plus, the kids at school pretty much left her alone now. They didn't even try to make fun of her like they used to. She was a leper; ignored completely so they wouldn't have to deal – so they wouldn't have to feel bad for making fun of the girl whose mom just died. She went to school and even the _teachers_ didn't call on her.

And Ryan wasn't around anymore.

But that was a good thing.

Sure, it'd be nice to have someone to talk to again, and she sure wouldn't complain about the view. But even though she knew she wanted him, it wasn't healthy to let herself be used. He needed to get over Marissa on his own; not by getting back at her with her rival. And she knew that if Ryan kept coming around – being _nice_ and acting like her friend – she'd just end up in bed with him again.

So it was better he didn't come around anymore.

* * *

He was losing his mind.

The paper _couldn't_ say what he thought it said. He had to be seeing things; losing his mind.

There was no way he actually got into college.

But there was the paper in his hands: _Dear Ryan, congratulations on your acceptance…_

He couldn't bring himself to read any more than that.

"Hello?"

He looked up at Summer, who'd come in without even knocking.

"Summer," he nodded, trying to shake off the dizziness. "Hey."

"I got in!" she grinned, waving her letter in his face.

"Congratulations," he hugged her, feeling a strange sort of excitement rushing up through his stomach that made him pick her up and twirl her around. "That's amazing."

"Thanks," she grinned. If she was taken aback by his sudden - uncharacteristic - burst of enthusiasm, she said nothing. "Did you…" Her eyes went to the paper he still held in his hands and his heart jumped in his chest.

"Yes."

He wasn't hallucinating.

He was going to college.

* * *

The papers were spread out on the table in front of her, torn envelopes next to them. Her eyes shifted in and out of focus, but she didn't need to read them again – they were burned into her memory.

_Dear Taylor, congratulations… Dear Miss Townsend, we are pleased to inform you… Taylor Townsend, we are happy to announce…_

Ten letters from ten universities, in three different countries, all saying the same thing: _hello, this is your life calling_.

The logos stamped on the top of each paper made her heart jump; Oxford, the Sorbonne, every college in the Ivy League - Princeton, Yale, Harvard, Colombia, Cornell, University of Pennsylvania, Dartmouth – except for Brown, so she wouldn't be able to take Seth's chance. She'd even applied to UC Berkeley, as a backup. At least a state college would be cheaper.

Because she was still living off her minimum wage job and the leftovers from the sale of her house.

* * *

He felt like his head was going to explode.

His neck hurt, his eyes strained from reading everyone's sweatshirts.

From reading where everyone was going to college.

Marissa was there with Johnny, in a pink Berkeley shirt. She smiled at him and he smiled back and that was the extent of it. No drama, no pain, no longing glances.

Seth and Summer had long ago disappeared and he anticipated having to hear something later. Seth was acting weird – well, weirder than usual – and he just _knew_ something bad was going to happen tonight. But so far he'd spent the bonfire talking to kids he'd never even been on the radar of, all because they were wearing the same sweatshirts.

University of California.

There were a lot of them going, although a good chunk of them were going to the LA campus rather than Berkeley, but still. It was weird.

Because people were talking to him like it _wasn't_ surprising he got in. Like it was just a given that he was going.

He needed a drink and he really hoped some idiot had spiked the punch, because he could use the boost right now.

Taylor was standing by the refreshment table, talking in rapid fire Korean with some guy. Considering the catering truck from a Korean restaurant downtown, he assumed the guy had supplied the food. Taylor wasn't in the social committee anymore, but apparently they still used her contacts.

"Taylor, hey," he nodded at her and she broke off her conversation with the caterer.

"Ryan." Then her eyes flicked down and she attempted a smile. "Berkeley? Congratulations."

"Thanks. And you too, for getting into…" he looked down at her sweatshirt for reference and frowned.

"The Sorbonne," she supplied and from the pronunciation, he assumed it was French.

"Yeah. I have no idea where that is, but congrats."

She nodded and poured herself a drink and he stood there, unsure whether he should go or not.

Would it be rude just to leave? Or did she expect him to hang around and talk?

They hadn't talked in a while; nearly a month. He'd heard from Sandy that she'd sold her house and moved into a smaller place, but ever since their… _encounter_, he couldn't bring himself to go over and check up on her like he used to.

"It's in Paris," she said, out of nowhere. She turned around to stare out at the party, swirling the liquid in her cup, but she didn't drink. "And it's only _if_ I can go."

"Why wouldn't you?" He almost made a comment about how it wasn't like she needed her mom's permission, or anything. She would've laughed at that - she had a sick sense of humor - but it was still in bad taste, so he kept his mouth shut.

"If we can get my mom's accounts cleared up in time, I can go. But if not, I may be joining you and half of Harbor's population at UC Berkeley."

"Berkeley's not so bad," he shrugged, feeling his enthusiasm dip a little. Nothing dampened the mood like being reminded that everyone _else_ he knew was going Ivy League and he wasn't.

"I didn't mean it like that," she amended softly, frowning down at her drink. "It's just… I've been planning on getting out of California since I was born. My whole life, my goal's been to go to the East Coast, or England or France. It's just a little hard to recondition myself to the idea that I may have to stay here."

"Yeah, but Berkeley's gotta be better than here," he reasoned. It _had_ to be, because people like Sandy loved it there.

"Anything's better than here," she shrugged. "I just never imagined myself going to UC anything. And no, I'm not going anywhere near UCLA." He smiled as his eyes went over to all the jocks and slutty girls that were going there so they could be near the city. "Where's UC Sunnydale when you need it?"

* * *

It was weird, going home before a school hosted event ended. Usually she was the last person to leave; overseeing the cleanup, making sure everyone else got home alright. But that wasn't her responsibility anymore.

She set her keys on their appropriate hook after she locked the door to her apartment and stripped off her sweatshirt. It went back in her closet on its neat hanger; most likely to never be worn again.

She wasn't going to the Sorbonne.

She wasn't going to France.

She wasn't getting out of California.

Tonight had been one giant fake; a lie; something to make herself feel better; to make herself look better in front of everyone.

Because, even if her mom's accounts opened up, it just wasn't practical.

She could get a good education at Berkeley, she knew that. And she may even have enough to pay for the Sorbonne with all her mom's money – which Sandy _was_ closer to unlocking, thanks to his tedious research into McMahon's personal life and previous sexual harassment charges. But without her mom's steady salary, it was just plain impractical to go spending all her savings on college tuition, housing, food, and transportation, when she could get a good education for less.

So she would go to Berkeley and invest the rest of her mom's money and once she graduated and got a steady job, she'd think about going to grad school.

Maybe then she'd finally get out of here.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts and she set down her bowl of macaroni and cheese to answer it.

Ryan was still in his Berkeley sweatshirt, face unreadable as she stood aside to let him in. She didn't even ask how he'd gotten her address; she honestly didn't care.

"Hey," she greeted before going back to her kitchen to resume eating dinner.

"So this is your new place." It was a statement of bored observation and she shrugged in response.

"Pretty much. Why are you here?"

"I don't know."

She turned to face him. He looked like hell and she wasn't sure if she blamed him. She knew Marissa had gone to the bonfire with that new kid - who she honestly couldn't figure out the attraction to. It must've been hard for him to see that the entire time, especially with Seth and Summer fighting the whole night - she wasn't sure about what, but she'd seen them arguing and Summer looking really upset.

Ryan must've had a really tough night.

And now he was here.

She set down her bowl and walked into her bedroom and he followed silently.

She was such a stupid, stupid girl.

* * *

_review_


	10. Cannot Get, Started

_So... I just wrote a four page research paper in two hours, so I'm celebrating with some Fallen. Oh and__ last chapter, I said you'd all hate me, but I think I was thinking of this chapter when I wrote that. _

_Yeah._

_Enjoy?_

_Music: sometimes I can't get it started, back from nothing_

* * *

"My first was this girl at a party. I don't really remember her name, but she and her boyfriend had a fight, so she dragged me up to a bedroom and that's when I lost it."

"How old were you?" she asked, letting her eyes shift in and out of focus as she stared up at the ceiling.

"Thirteen, I think. How about you?"

"Fourteen," she sighed, blinking slowly as she watched a cloud of smoke drift through her field of vision. She kind of liked the smell of cigarette smoke – it was familiar. Her mom had smoked and even though she hated the woman – _had_ hated the woman – the smell was still comforting. "It was with my piano teacher." He shifted to flick the ash off his cigarette into the mug on the bedside table, but didn't say anything. "My mom signed me up for piano lessons, I think so she could get me out of the house more, and I had this major crush on my teacher. He was like, twenty-something. I remember him being really nice to me and he always told me I was pretty."

"He couldn't have been too nice," he murmured before taking another drag. "I mean, the guy was twenty-something and you were fourteen. That's sick."

"I started it," she shrugged and he turned to lift an eyebrow at her. "I'd had a bad day. Marissa, Summer and Holly dumped grape Kool-Aid on me at lunch and my mom told me I was fat when I got home. But then Shane told me I was pretty and I kissed him. So I started it."

"Doesn't change the fact that he was twenty-something and you were fourteen. Did he get in trouble?"

"I never told anyone. And we never really talked about it again and a couple weeks later, he quit. I think he felt guilty or something."

"Makes sense."

He didn't say anything else and she didn't either. When he was done his cigarette, he dropped it into the mug she'd given him for it and shifted to lay back down.

He hadn't left afterwards, this time. Actually, he'd asked if she wanted him to go, but she'd told him it was 'cool' if he stayed. It had been awkward and it was honestly _still_ awkward, but it was nicer than feeling guilty and alone.

He lay on his back and she curled up on her side, facing away from him, and fell asleep.

* * *

What the hell was wrong with him?

When had he turned into such a complete jackass?

He'd come over last night to get laid; there was no use in trying to deny it. He didn't go to her apartment to 'talk', he didn't go to check up on her. He'd gone there for the pure and simple motive of forgetting all the bonfire shit – Marissa and Johnny, Seth and Summer.

The worst part was, he didn't even feel that guilty.

Yeah, there was a tiny part of him that was – guilty for using her, especially because she obviously had problems. She'd just lost her mom, she had no friends, she'd been taken advantage of in the past. She had all the makings of a lonely, desperate, easy girl and he'd taken the opening.

But there was a bigger part of him that just felt relieved, because he was actually doing something for himself for once. It was nice, being able to relax for a while; it was nice, to get off. One bonus of needy girls – they were certainly eager to please.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Where was his constant guilt, his brooding, his angst? Where was his regret? Where the fuck was his conscience?

But it was just so damn good – to want something and _get it_. It felt fantastic to not have to watch from afar at some unreachable goal. It'd always been like that with Marissa and at school. Even with the Cohens, it still sometimes felt like he was watching them from outside, through a window, at this perfect family that he was only lucky to catch a glimpse of.

But Taylor was real. She was attainable and not flawless in any sense of the word. She was rude, she was argumentative, she was obsessive to a fault, she was stubborn, she lied, she despised everyone, especially herself.

She was so flawed that she was perfect.

Well, perfect for what he needed, right now.

* * *

They didn't talk in school, they didn't go out to dinner, they didn't sit and watch movies together. But nearly every night, he'd come over and she would let him. He didn't say much and neither did she.

She was beginning to think that Ryan Atwood was just as screwed up as she was.

Well, it kind of figured. He wasn't actually a Cohen, so he didn't have that gene that made him automatically _perfect_.

It was actually kind of nice.

"You hungry?"

She twisted around to look at him and shrugged. "If you are." There was a brief hesitation before he got out of bed and went into the kitchen.

She wasn't sure why he hesitated. She was letting him sleep here almost every night, why would she have a problem with him getting food? He had free reign in her place for all she cared.

It's not like she had any dignity around him, anyway.

* * *

"Or you could just tell her you didn't get into Brown," he sighed, rubbing his hands over his face.

This conversation was going nowhere.

He loved Seth; the boy was a better brother than Trey had ever been and the best friend he'd ever had. But sometimes talking to him was like going in circles or hitting his head repeatedly against a very thick, very dense wall.

Seth – predictably – ignored his advice and continued to talk. He felt his muscles tense up.

This was why he kept going over to Taylor's.

He was done with always giving advice and not being listened to. He was sick of being taken advantage of. He was sick of everyone worrying about themselves while he sat by the sidelines.

He was – honestly – sick of his life.

* * *

"You're serious," she whispered; desperate to muffle her hope.

She hated hope.

It always came back to bite her in the ass.

"I'm completely serious," Sandy nodded, handing her the paperwork. She stared at it, not quite comprehending the language, even though she knew – somewhere in the back of her mind – that it was English. "This is a good thing, Taylor."

"I know. I just don't believe it."

"Well, try. And please, tell me you aren't going to back down, not now."

Her eyes flicked up at the man, at the complete sincerity in his face.

He _cared_.

About her.

Why?

"I'm not backing down," she shook her head, putting the papers down. "I'll testify."

"Good. With your testimony and that of Miss Banks, we should have enough on McMahon to at least get him on questionable conduct and sexual harassment in the workplace, if nothing else."

Sexual harassment in the workplace.

Sandy had dug up an old secretary of McMahon's who was willing to testify.

Her testimony, it had turned out, wouldn't be enough; not if they wanted to make sure they got him the first time around. But with this other woman...

This was actually happening.

"How about you come to dinner tonight?" Sandy leaned back in his chair, triumphant smile on his face. "We'll celebrate."

Celebrate?

She hadn't had anything to celebrate in thirteen years; not since her fifth birthday party.

The last one her dad had thrown her before he'd stormed out of the house for good.

"Alright."

* * *

If denial were an Olympic sport, they'd be a fucking gold medal team.

Seth was hiding his rejection from Brown; Sandy was oblivious to his client's discomfort; Kirsten oblivious to everyone's.

He and Taylor, though, were caught up in a _marathon_ lie.

He didn't think one person suspected.

To be fair, though, she was really good at lying, so maybe it wasn't so much that everyone else was stupid; he and Taylor were just that good.

Something had changed though; some small dynamic. Taylor hadn't eaten here in over a month, yet here she was. And there was something else – maybe the tense set to her shoulders, the triumphant grin that seemed permanently etched on Sandy's face.

Something had changed, he just couldn't tell what.

* * *

"Has Sandy been telling you stuff? About my case?"

She sat on her counter, stirring the cereal around in her bowl absently. He shrugged, not moving from his place, leaning up against the other counter. "Not really. I think there's some legal confidentiality thing."

"Since you told him about McMahon, he's been… checking up on his past and apparently I'm not the first one."

"Figures," he muttered.

"He got an old secretary to testify. And me. We're going to court."

He looked up from his own bowl of cereal and fixed his eyes on her; calm and level. "You're serious?"

"That's what I said. And yes, I am."

"Good."

He didn't say he was proud of her, he didn't offer support.

He wasn't her boyfriend.

He was just barely her friend.

* * *

The ceiling of the pool house was infinitely interesting.

He'd been staring at it for a while now.

It was good – Taylor testifying against McMahon. It was good – getting the bastard for sexual harassment.

But he couldn't help but wish it weren't happening.

Because he wasn't stupid enough to believe that Taylor was sleeping with him for the hell of it. He was painfully aware that this was a mutual thing; a way to hide from their messed up lives and the people in them. It wasn't just him using her to get over Marissa; she was using him to forget McMahon and her mother.

And now that problem would be solved.

It was horrible, because he couldn't help but hope that Taylor's mommy issues were enough to keep her needy; to keep her dependent on him.

He wasn't sure what he'd do if he actually had to face his life.

Marissa and Johnny.

Seth and Summer.

College.

Leaving the Cohens.

He was sick of his life, but he couldn't handle it changing.

He thought he'd be free of this now that he'd broken up with Marissa, but he wasn't.

He was stuck; not able to move backward, not willing to move forward, not capable of handling where he was.

He didn't have Marissa anymore; Kirsten was focused on her sobriety, Sandy on his new client, Seth on himself. Every day that passed, he felt more and more stretched; like a t-shirt passing through the wash.

Every day, he faded just a little bit more.

Was he even really here to begin with?

_

* * *

_

review


	11. The Prayer

_So it seems like the happy little fic that is Bloom hasn't deterred me from writing complete, depressing angst. I apologize in advance for this._

_Oh, and I'll give extra points if someone can guess what my favorite band is. I'm pretty sure I've used them more times as inspiration than any other._

_Music: tonight, make me unstoppable; and I will charm, I will slice, I will dazzle, I will outshine them all_

* * *

"Do I look ok?" She asked, smoothing down her skirt.

"You look fine," her lawyer answered, snapping his briefcase shut.

"I mean, do I look like someone who isn't inviting sexual advances?"

"You look fine," he repeated, this time looking up at her. "And you'll do fine. Just tell the truth."

Truth.

That was a novel concept.

* * *

They managed to be late to the airport; Kirsten had spent an extra hour fussing over Sandy and Taylor and the trial this morning.

But they were here now and he watched his brother get on a plane to Rhode Island with some master plan that he had only a vague knowledge of. Something about getting into Brown. Kirsten kissed his cheek at his gate and he was glad he hadn't missed his flight.

Who knew what would've happened if they'd gotten to the airport on time.

* * *

Apparently she'd done well.

She'd said all the right things, sniffled at all the appropriate times, kept her head bowed in shame and the jury had eaten it up. She'd seen the looks on their faces when she recounted her stories.

And she told the truth; the words that had come out of her mouth hadn't had a single false thing in them.

The way she'd acted, though, _that_ was the lie.

She'd been pathetic and sullen. She'd hid the fact that she was pissed as hell; that she hoped McMahon rotted in jail for the rest of her life.

Juries didn't like vengeful girls; they likes soft-spoken, sad ones.

"I could drive you to the airport," Sandy offered as he drove her back to her apartment. "You could still make it to Berkeley."

"That's alright. I'm tired and with the trial, I'm not really in a collegiate mood."

Plus, Ryan would be at Berkeley, and she really didn't feel like spending the entire weekend watching him pine after Marissa.

She got enough of that here.

* * *

College was…

He couldn't think of a word to describe it.

No one cared that he was from Chino.

He wasn't the freak who went to class and did his homework while everyone else dealt pot and robbed convenience stores.

He wasn't the outcast who spent three years trying to fit in where he obviously didn't belong.

No.

At college, he was…

_Normal._

People talked to him.

Girls smiled at him.

Not one single person the entire day rolled their eyes or whispered behind his back.

He'd gone from one extreme to the other; Chino to Newport.

Berkeley was like a middle ground.

He felt like Goldilocks.

Chino had been too big, Newport too small; Chino too hard; Newport too soft, Chino too hot, Newport too cold.

College was his medium chair; his comfortable bed; his lukewarm porridge.

Something in his head clicked; he couldn't describe it.

It was like being…

Like being…

Being...

_Comfortable_.

* * *

McMahon wasn't going to jail; some stupid technicality or something she didn't quite understand or care about.

But his firm had been _quite_ displeased with the popularity and he'd been fired; no law offices in the area would take him.

And she had money.

Her mother's money.

While his kids were off at college, Sandy had helped her set up several accounts for herself; helped her set up a college financial plan; helped her apply for scholarships.

There was a strange feeling in her stomach; she couldn't describe it.

It was like being…

_Free_.

* * *

He smiled when Seth talked to him.

He smiled when Kirsten welcomed him home from his visit.

He smiled when Sandy clapped him on the shoulder.

He was happy. Excited.

He had a life; a future, and not just one of endless tedium and pointless endeavors.

"You'll work things out with Summer," he spoke suddenly, cutting Seth off.

"I dunno, she was pretty pissed off…" Seth continued, not listening to a word he was saying. Just like always.

He smiled.

* * *

They stood in her living room.

"So how was Berkeley?"

"Good. Your trial went well?"

"Yeah."

Something was off; something had changed.

She couldn't tell what it was, but it was something.

He was smiling.

She had a future.

She had a life beyond Newport; opportunities; freedom from McMahon, from her mother. She could decide what major she wanted, what she wanted to do with her life.

For the first time in her life, the only person she had to listen to was herself.

The only string left was Ryan.

* * *

He hadn't come for sex.

He'd been right, before. Prosecuting McMahon and getting her mom's money had changed her. She'd opened the door and her eyes hadn't been dead. They hadn't been bright, either, but there was something there.

Hope, he decided.

The same thing he was feeling.

Their sex was a release; it was a way to lose themselves; a way to forget their problems.

They weren't dating.

He'd never wanted to date her and he had a feeling she'd never deluded herself into thinking he did.

Their sex was about hopelessness.

But something had changed.

"I don't think we can do this," he told her finally, after their brief, awkward small talk. "Anymore, I mean," he clarified.

"I think you're right," she nodded and he breathed a silent sigh of relief. She wasn't going to fight with him; make a big scene.

"Sorry. I feel like I used you."

"I used you, too."

"I know."

"I guess I'll say I'm sorry, too, then," she shrugged and he laughed lightly.

"Friends?" he offered, bringing his hand up to rub the back of his neck.

She paused for a while and tilted her head at him.

"No."

He looked her in the eye and she held his gaze steadily.

She was right.

They weren't dating.

They weren't friends.

"I'll see you around."

"Yeah."

* * *

She didn't pay much attention in school after that.

It's not like she had to.

The teachers all pitied her, they made things easier and gave her 'extra credit' for doing stupid, simple things. And she didn't have social committee to link her. Every day she showed up for school, sat in her classes, did her homework, but she didn't really pay attention.

She didn't go to prom.

She wasn't valedictorian.

She didn't care, though. She was still in the top three percent of her class and Harbor didn't matter anymore. The school, the teachers, the people. None of it mattered.

At graduation, they called her name and no one clapped for her.

She packed up her apartment and no one helped carry the boxes to the moving truck.

She moved to Berkeley two months early and settled into her new apartment and found a job at the local book store.

She spent her days working and her evenings self-touring the Berkeley campus and her nights watching movies and reading the books she spent most of her paychecks on.

She was alone, but somehow, it didn't feel as empty as it had before.

She had hope.

* * *

He never thought he'd graduate high school, much less go to college.

But here he was, sitting in his dorm, waiting for his roommate to show up.

The Cohens had stayed as long as they could, but they had to go to work eventually, so they'd finally left.

He was sick of staring at the empty wall on his roommate's side, so he went out for a walk.

The campus was filled with freshman; moving in, getting their ID pictures taken, freaking out, crying, hugging their parents. In the middle of it all there were older students, shouting directions over the noise, pointing confused kids in the right direction.

"Ryan."

He turned in the direction of the voice and took a deep breath.

"Hey, Marissa."

"So this is crazy, right?" she laughed nervously, looking around at the mass. "I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Did you get your ID yet?" She shook her head, frowning, like she had no idea she had to get one. "It's over by that red banner."

"You got yours?"

"A couple hours ago, before the lines built up."

"Oh." She hesitated a second.

"Want me to come with you?"

"If you're not busy," she smiled, relieved. They started to walk in relative silence and after a while, she spoke. "So how'd you get so good at this college stuff?"

Good?

They got into line and he turned to look at her; nervous, picking at her nails, looking around constantly.

She was terrified of college and he… wasn't.

Well, what do you know, he was actually good at something.

* * *

She'd gotten her ID and taken care of everything a few days ago. The last thing she needed was to be stuck in the middle of all those college kids.

She wasn't like them, she knew it. She wasn't living on campus, she wouldn't go to ragers, she wouldn't partake in all the wonders college life had to offer.

She'd go to class and do her homework and go to work and that would be it.

She wasn't going to even pretend like she'd try to make friends.

That never really worked out.

The closest she'd ever come was Ryan and she knew he was around somewhere, but she didn't need him.

He was a crutch; she knew that. Just like her mother had been; just like Shane; just like Sandy.

She just wanted to get through college so her real life could begin.

Maybe then she'd make friends.

Or maybe she'd just always be alone.

_

* * *

_

review


	12. This Modern Love

_So this is short, because it's an epilogue. Which means it's the end. Most likely you will all hate me for this, but I don't care. It's how I'm ending it._

_Enjoy the non-conclusiveness._

_Music: this modern love breaks me, this modern love wastes me_

* * *

"Hey."

The voice was wary, hesitant, and she looked up.

Ryan Atwood.

She hadn't talked to him in nearly five months; she'd seen him around campus a few times and he'd nodded at her in greeting, but they hadn't talked. For some reason, though, he dropped his tray onto the table and sat down across from her.

"Hi."

"What're you reading?" he nodded at her book, picking up his bottle of iced tea and shaking it around, but not opening or drinking it.

"_The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay_," she recited. "It's really long and it's taking me forever to read."

"Seth loves that book," he smiled fondly and she remembered he probably hadn't seen his brother in a little over two months.

"It's ok," she shrugged. She'd picked the book up at work because the cover was interesting. That's how she picked out books; by their covers.

There was an awkward pause as he shook his iced tea and she stared down at the book.

"So how do you like Berkeley so far?" he broke the silence.

"It's nice."

"You going to the charity thing tonight?"

She furrowed her brow at him. "What charity thing?"

"The charity concert. I take it you're not going, then."

"I don't pay much attention to extracurriculars. I mostly just go to class and work."

He finally looked up at her and she saw a strange emotion flicker over his face. Then it settled back; smooth as stone. "Marissa and I are going tonight, if you wanna come."

"You're dating Marissa again?"

It wasn't jealousy that sparked in her chest; she was certain of that. It was just a sudden sense of weariness. Because if he was dating Marissa again, what had been the point? What had been the point of their trysts? The whole thing had been for him to get over her; to move on. Not to fall back to her again.

"No," he backtracked, leaning back in his chair. "She's just not adjusting to college life real well, and I'm…"

"Helping her adjust," she supplied, frowning slightly.

"Well, when you say it like that, it sounds bad."

"So make it sound good, then."

"I guess I can't. But we're not dating; she's still seeing Johnny. He's in some surf competition, but he calls her every day and he sends her emails and she flies out to see him compete every other weekend."

"So she's not settling into college because her head's with Johnny," she closed her book and decided to eat.

"I guess."

"How are you fitting in?"

"Good, I guess. It's weird; that I'm doing better than her. I have a couple friends; it's weird."

"It's good," she told him, shrugging.

"Yeah. How about you?"

"I keep to myself, mostly. Like I said, I work a lot."

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck again.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's just," he started, averting his eyes from her. "I thought maybe after… what happened, maybe you'd change, you know? Try to get to know people? I guess I'm just being too vain, though, thinking I'd helped you."

"You did help me," she said softly, staring down at her plate and swirling her salad around with her fork. "I was… I was going through a rough time and I want you to know, you did help me. I never got to thank you for it."

"You don't need to," he kept his voice low. "You helped me, too. I don't regret it."

"Me neither."

She pushed the same piece of lettuce around on her plate.

"Come to the concert with us tonight." She looked up at him finally; his face unreadable. "If you're worried about Marissa, don't be. She's changed, now that she's not in Newport. She'd probably actually like seeing someone she knows."

She hesitated.

It wasn't Marissa she was worried about.

His eyes caught hers and she blinked.

"Alright."

He smiled.

_

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review


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